


Back to the Roots

by Mirach



Series: My Good Omens stories [13]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, Branding, Burns, Censorship, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Flogging, Fluff, Healing, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Le Petit Prince References, M/M, Memory Loss, Metaphysical Sex, Needles, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Propaganda, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Psychological Torture, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Wing Injury, mutual love and support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2020-10-29 13:11:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 90,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20797169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach
Summary: "We always knew it would end. Like mortals know that they'll die." Crowley closes his eyes, finding the stare of his own reflection unbearable. "When you're immortal, you can afford to pretend and hide and go slow. And then, when you finally figure it all out, it turns out that what you have can end anytime. It's unfair..."----------The morale in Heaven and Hell is low after the failed Apocalypse. Punishing the traitors (effectively this time) seems like a good idea to raise it for both sides - the angels would see what awaits them if they dare to disobey and the demons could just use some fun. And then there is someone else as well - someone whose grudge is even more personal.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story will get to some very dark places before it ends, so please be warned about that, mind the tags and skip ahead if you need to! (Actual torture is in chapters 4, 6, 9, 15 and 16 and it starts getting better around chapter 17.)
> 
> Many thanks to [MilesHibernus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesHibernus/) for being my beta!

Our story starts, as it will end, in a bookshop. The sign on the door says "closed", but let us not be discouraged by it. We can take a peek inside: the door is not locked. 

It probably should be locked. Why would the owner leave it like this when it seems nobody is minding the shop? 

The noise from the street subsides as soon as we get inside, as if the windows had some insulation. They don't. It is an empty silence. There are just the towering bookshelves, most of them full of rare first editions and priceless tomes. It really should be locked. Just one shelf near the front holds a series of books for boys. And then there is one shelf at the back of the shop different from the rest: the wood is smooth and black, the design modern. It is filled with books on astronomy, house plant encyclopedias, spy novellas and a few Nora Roberts romances.

The horizontal surfaces that are not occupied by books are overtaken by plants. It is quite amazing how lush they are, considering the light conditions in the shop. Every florist would tell you that _ Crassula ovata _ needs full sun, and yet here it thrives at the top of a bookshelf, the nearest window half a room away. 

The shop's transition into private space is very gradual. One could probably say that the owner considers the whole shop private space. The little kitchen in the back houses an ancient tea set and a very modern and hi-tech coffee maker. There is some tea in a white mug with angel wings, and another mug - a black one - holding the dregs of coffee. Both are cold. The newspaper on the table is still folded, unread. The fruit bowl next to it is overturned, fruit scattered across the surface. One blood-red apple has fallen from the table and is lying on the floor.

Further to the side, there are stairs leading to the upper floor. It seems as if something heavy hit one of the bookshelves nearby. A few books have fallen out and are now scattered on the ground, pages crumpled. A pot with _ Maranta leuconeura _ (also called prayer plant) lies shattered among them. The plant's leaves are broken and the soil from the pot is trailing up the stairs, as if someone stepped in it and got it stuck on their shoes. 

As we get closer to the stairs, the silence is interrupted by voices coming from upstairs. Ascending the stairs, they are getting clearer.

"...of you must go."

"Nothing personal, you know. Elimination of the weakest."

"Why one of us? How about one of you?"

"Numbers, dear. There's more of us. Now just to find out which of you is weaker..."

The stairs creak as we ascend, but the voices are not disturbed by that. Maybe they wouldn't notice if we just carefully peeked inside?

There's nobody there. The wide flat screen of a TV shines across the room. It is on, showing the channel it was last tuned to. Some kind of reality show taking place on a lonely island.

This must be the owner's bedroom. The walls have that look that says "recent renovation", very welcome in the real estate market. If you were looking to buy the flat though, you would probably replace the bed. It is a wide double bed with too many pillows, and it looks quite ridiculous with its black silk sheets and soft tartan cover. One side of the bed is unmade. The sheets on the other side are folded neatly. Next to that side stands a vintage night table made from an old crate with stars painted in a peeling color, which gives it a convincing look of a stage prop used in the show of an 18th century magician. There is a beige lamp and a stack of books piled on the table in precarious balance, the one on the top open. The other side of the bed has no night table, only an empty wine bottle.

A potential buyer would most probably want to do something about the strange smell in the air, too. It’s like ozone mixed with sulphur. 

But the strangest object in the room is lying on the floor, half-way between the bed and the only window. It's a heap of feathers, and the bird that lost them must have been huge. Or maybe two birds: some are black and some white. 

The feathers are bloody.


	2. Paper roses

The floor is cold and smooth, unyielding under the torn feathers.

When Crowley opens his eyes, he feels like he's falling.

He's in a deep shaft of rough concrete, stretching both above and below him endlessly. His fingers grasp at the first thing they can reach. It's soft and comforting, but it is hard to be comforted here. There are eyes staring at him from the shaft: two yellow serpentine eyes with narrow slits, like knife wounds. And around them, hundreds of wings, black and white, marked with bloody lines like claw scratches.

He raises his hand to shield himself, and with a metallic glint hundreds of hands raise, perfectly synchronized.

Mirrors.

There are mirrors instead of the floor and ceiling. They are filled with black and white... and red.

Bloody wings. His own, raven black with an opalescent shine. And angel wings, white and soft and comforting like a warm blanket one can stay wrapped in when sleeping in on a cold winter day. White and soft and torn.

"Aziraphale?"

Hundreds of gentle blue eyes open in the mirrors, filled with pain and confusion.

"What... Where are we? Crowley?"

His hand reaches out and the demon takes it.

Crowley opens his mouth to say something witty and reassuring, but the words are stuck in his throat. He tries again.

"Together, angel," he whispers, without the usual, even if faked, confidence. "We are together. As long as that is true, it doesn't matter where."

"You don't know," Aziraphale smiles faintly, focusing on the sight of the serpentine eyes, shining like molten gold, and drinking it like someone who knows it might be the last drink before crossing a vast desert.

"I don't," Crowley admits. "It doesn't feel like Hell. Nor Heaven. Feels like someone was having some weird ideas about interior design."

"Uhm. And we are... naked," Aziraphale states the obvious, blushing with it.

Crowley can't help it but adore it - both the blush and his angel's naked form. If only the circumstances were different.

"Well, it's improper from the one who undressed us, not from us," he tries to stop the angel from worrying. But it _is_ worrisome. Just not in the *I have standards even when facing discorporation* way that Aziraphale worries. More like in the *what the Hell/Heaven/both do they mean to do to us* way.

Aziraphale is still blushing, but he turns his attention to the ceiling. He moves his hand and observes the moving reflections. "Mirrors? And what's this?" He brings his wrist in front of his eyes.

"Shackles."

"But there are no chains. They look more like bracelets..." He snaps his fingers. "Ah. Yes. _That_ kind of shackles."

"What did you try?"

"Healing your wings."

Crowley smiles faintly, touched by his angel's priorities. Then his eyes get the distant look of intent focus.

"Right. No miracles. Can't even hide my wings."

His hand carefully touches the shaft of a broken white feather next to a bloody gash. "Does it hurt much?" He bites his lip. "Stupid question, right?"

"No, not at all, my dear," Aziraphale says fondly. "It shows concern. But I fear you know the answer." His look goes to the other's wings. Blood does not stand out that much against their blackness, but he can see they are in a very similar state. "How did we get here?" he asks. "Do you remember?"

"No. Last thing I remember is you running upstairs to me, calling for me to fly away. And then they came."

* * *

_They came in the morning._

_It was one of the cold autumn ones with a low sun slowly warming the crisp air, filled with the smell of tea and coffee and miraculously fresh pastry bought two days ago._

_Aziraphale would usually wake much sooner than Crowley did. Crowley knew that the angel had never seen the allure of going blank for a few hours before, but Aziraphale told him it was different now. There was the falling asleep together and waking next to him. Even the sleep itself was welcome. It meant closeness of both body and state of mind, even though said mind was not conscious of it._

_Aziraphale liked it most like this: to wake while Crowley still slept, go downstairs to make breakfast, read for a bit and then return to be there when the demon woke. It could take hours if Aziraphale woke particularly early but Crowley's coffee would stay hot and fresh the whole time._

_Sometimes Crowley woke sooner than the breakfast was ready, though. He would wince at the feeling of an empty place on Aziraphale's side of the bed, but the familiar smells and closeness of an angelic presence would reassure him. He would turn on the TV and watch for a while, sometimes with a hint of professional pride if something he invented was on, like Wheel of Fortune or some reality show._

_There was an angelic warding glyph on the TV, meaning that nothing demonic could take over the transmission. There were angelic AND demonic glyphs on all doors and windows, warding against all ethereal or occult beings who did not belong there. A high-ranking angel could break the angelic glyph, but the demonic one would surely stop him. And the same was true for demons with the angelic glyphs. For the first time in thousands of years, Crowley allowed himself to feel safe._

_It was one of those mornings now. An empty half of the bed, but the reassuring smells, the closeness of Aziraphale's presence. The kettle whistled from downstairs and a marathon of the Last Survivor was on TV._

_Then, suddenly, another presence. The raw power of it knocked the breath out of his lungs._

_It felt angelic. And demonic._

_Something scattered on the floor downstairs. Then a heavy thudy and shattering. Then Aziraphale was with him, wings out, panic in his eyes._

_"Fly!" he cried, heading towards the window._

_Crowley's wings manifested almost on their own. He knew that whatever his angel was fleeing, it was too powerful to fight._

_But he did not flee. He snapped his fingers, following his first instinct in danger._

_Time did not stop._

_Something blocked his miracle._

_Aziraphale was right next to him now, grabbing his hand. One beat of wings carried them both towards the window._

_They never reached it._

_The room was full of wings, eyes and barbs. Six white wings, shining like angry neon lights. Six insect wings, a myriad of opalescent windows set in a web of darkness._

_An Archangel and a Prince of Hell in their true forms, the full power of a seraph and a fallen seraph unleashed on the 150 square feet of their bedroom._

_It did not even move a page of the open book, lying on Aziraphale's nightstand._

_The full onslaught was focused on the two other beings in the room, angelic and demonic. The power surrounded them like a whirlwind of blades that tore into their wings. They wrapped them around each other just before the power pressed them and made it unable to move._

_Then there was just darkness._

_And then, mirrors._

* * *

"Remember the Christmas markets?" Crowley asks hoarsely. It seems so out of place that Aziraphale blinks in surprise. Hundreds of reflections blink with him.

"Of course I do." There is no clarification needed, although there have been hundreds of Christmas markets they had been to. "We had a confitted duck burger."

"I convinced you to ride the carousel with me."

"Yes, you actually did. After how many years of trying?"

"Oh, I would say about a hundred. Vienna, 1903. That was the first time I called you, wasn't it? But I only asked you about five times since then."

"The twenty times in a single day before I agreed don't count?"

"That's still one."

Aziraphale chuckles. Then sobs. All his reflections shift in pain. "I know what you're doing. Distracting me from being here... Thank you, my dear... you are so nice."

Crowley snorts. "Know what? Yes. Yes, I'm nice. But only to you."

"I knew it!"

"But I'm not distracting you. I just... we knew this was coming one day but still... we had so little time... I just want to enjoy it as long as I can."

"Three years," Aziraphale whispers. "Three short years."

"Three wonderful years," Crowley looks at him. His serpent eyes glisten in the dim light almost like they are holding unshed tears. "Mortal years. Maybe that's why they were so intense. But it wasn't enough. Never would be."

"Mortal? How so?"

"We always knew they would end. Like mortals know that they'll die." Crowley closes his eyes, finding the stare of his own reflection unbearable. "When you're immortal, you can afford to pretend and hide and go slow. And then, when you finally figure it all out, it turns out that what you have can end anytime. It's unfair..." His voice breaks.

"You won a paper rose for me," Aziraphale whispers. "At the Christmas markets. There was a shooting range and you know, those things nowadays usually have some cheap plastic toys for prizes. But this one had paper roses."

"I thought they always had paper roses."

"I see..." Aziraphale says softly. "Do you remember how you got one for me?"

Crowley opens his eyes again. "Are you distracting me now?"

"I just want to enjoy it with you as long as I can, even though it's only a memory. The dinners in Ritz, the picnics, the paper roses… Just a little while longer."

Their hands seek each other. The fingers intertwine and hundreds of hands connect in the reflections.

"I made a bet with you that I'd get the rose without any miracles," Crowley says.

"Indeed, my dear. We spent almost an hour there."

"It was rigged! The air pistol had a crooked barrel!"

"Of course, of course. But the punch in the neighboring stall was delicious, I must say."

"I got you the rose, at the end. No miracles, fair and square."

"That you did. 'There may be other roses,' you said. 'But this one is special because it's for you.' I didn't know you would memorize the Little Prince when I gave it to you for Christmas"

"I would never eat an elephant, though."

An echo of a smile appears on Aziraphale's lips, but his eyes are suddenly pensive. "What about the other snake?" he asks.

"What about it?"

"Would you do it?"

Crowley knows what Aziraphale is thinking about. His throat constricts. "Angel, no..."

"I must know. You know which snake I'm talking about. The poisonous one, that helped the Little Prince to shed his body. So he could return to his rose."

"No, please. I... I couldn't..."

Aziraphale smiles. "Good. That's good, my dear. No matter how tempted you might be, please don't ever do that. Because my rose is here."

Crowley gulps. "I won't," he whispers.

Something cracks in one of the walls. Their attention turns there immediately, the grip of the connected hands gets stronger.

Now the cracks form a door.

It starts opening.

Crowley gasps with shock and pain.

"Well, well. Aren't these the two traitors who made my son disown me? How nice..."


	3. Surveillance

Purposeful steps echo on the stairs leading into what seems like a mouldy basement studio with a glass ceiling. It looks like the room is at the bottom of a very deep shaft. There are pieces of outdated equipment scattered around the room, connected by tangled cables. Controls are blinking and a few screens emit a ghastly light into the dim space.

"Beelzebub!" A booming voice enters the room before its owner does.

The demon with the misleadingly petite stature rolls their eyes. "Yes, Gabe?" they ask, drawling the word like the remnants of a sticky candy being pulled from between the teeth.

"That was not in our agreement, you bag of flies!"

Now the archangel is in the room together with his voice. He's giving off a vibe of disgusted contempt. Like someone who has to deal with people so far below him that any lower would take them to the other side of the planet.

"Whatever do you mean, Gabe?" Beelzebub smiles, chasing something in their ear with their finger. It flies away with a buzz.

Gabriel points at the ceiling, which is also the floor of the room above. The glass makes it possible to see three persons. The naked forms of an angel and a demon are leaning on a wall opposite the door, bloody wings outstretched as if they're trying to cover each other. The third entity in the room has the appearance of an expensive italian lawyer who forgot to put on sunscreen at the beach. The appearance is misleading.

"Your boss." Gabriel's voice is hushed, as if he is afraid that the one he's talking about can overhear.

"Oh, come on, Gabe. He can't hear you. Or see, or sense in any way. It's a true one-way mirror," Beelzebub snickers.

Gabriel straightens a bit, pretending he doesn't know what Beelzebub is talking about. "It's not like I would be afraid of Him or something. So what is this supposed to mean?"

"Got a problem with Him? He's a bit busy right now, but I can see if there's an opening in his schedule if you want to discuzzz something."

Gabriel glares. "You know. What. My problem. Is."

Something in the room sparkles as a cable short-circuits.

"I thought there were no problems in Heaven."

Gabriel takes a deep breath. Then he smiles. A broad, fake smile. "Absolutely not. We only have problems with your crowd. And humans. And those two," he points up again.

"See, Gabe," Beelzebub circles him. "It's right here, in the contract." They take a piece of paper from their pocket. It smells faintly of rotten eggs, like everything that's spent time in Hell, but the writing is neat and legible and two sigils are scribbled under it. One contains fire in its lines, the other one crackles with electricity.

"Both sides of this contract agree that Heaven will provide the holding equipment, locking the powers of both ethereal and occult beings. Hell will provide an experienced torturer and all tools required," Beelzebub reads aloud. "You can't get anyone more experienced than that."

Gabriel paces in frustration. "This was supposed to raise the morale of both sides. I can't help but think that the morale boost from this might be a bit imbalanced."

"How so?"

Gabriel scoffs. "What do you think? It was meant to look like we are in control to our side! Like it was us who allowed this! It should have been some lower demon who's good at his craft, not…"

"Look, I didn't decide that!" Beelzebub snaps. "We put out the job offer, and He sent an application! What do you think I was supposed to do, tell Him that we value his time but we already found another suitable candidate? That He is overqualified for the job? What would you do if _your_ Boss applied?"

Gabriel stares at them.

Beelzebub rolls their eyes. "I don't want to claim that you're dumb, Gabe, but you're dumb. It's not like some great imbalance, is it? If your Boss decided to come down here too, who could stop Her? Certainly not me."

Gabriel quickly hides an expression of uncertainty. "Oh yes, of course. She would totally come if She wanted to. She just doesn't take much of a personal interest in things lately. She's relying on me to handle the mundane things."

"Well, He doezzz have a personal intetezzzt here." Beelzebub lets a fly out of their mouth and grins. "It's gonna be fun, watching the handiwork."

"Well, I suppose if we use some filters... blur His face..."

"Oh sure. Say it's GDPR or something. Would be fitting, with Crowley coming up with that one, heh."

"I thought we did."

Beelzebub just smirks. "So you're all set up? Cameras rolling and all that?"

"Of course. Aren't you?" Gabriel looks around a bit doubtfully.

"The zzztupid camera plug doezzzzn't fit into the computer!"

"Oh for Heaven's sake, show it to me."

Gabriel fiddles with it for a while. In the end, he jams the plug into the incorrect socket with force. A few sparks jump from the connection, but miraculously, it works.

"Thankzzzz, Gabe," Beelzebub grins. "Bring popcorn next time."

"I don't consume gross matter."

"Who said it's for you?"

* * *

Meanwhile, on the other side of the one-way mirror:

Crowley's eyes are huge and feral, no sclera visible. Two slits into the depths of the universe, encased in amber.

Aziraphale's eyes are calm and focused: cloudy mirrors not giving away anything that the angel might think.

They stand, hand in hand, wings wrapped around each other in a gesture of protection.

A futile one.

Because across from them stands one whose power is second only to God Herself. His eyes are an endless void rimmed with hellfire. The void sucks you in and the fire burns you to crisp.

"I did promise you the greatest torments imaginable if you messed up, didn't I?" Satan asks casually, but there is a dangerous undertone in his voice. It's accompanied by the rattling of chains that are coiling at His feet like pet snakes.

"Gnh," Crowley says, because he has a great imagination.

"Do not touch him," Aziraphale says, because he is a guardian even without a gate to guard.

This amuses Satan. "Or what? What will you do if I touch him, angel?"

Aziraphale does not answer. He does not know what he will do, of course. His logical mind tells him that there is nothing he can do that would matter. He can't say that aloud in front of Satan, though. But most importantly, he can't say that in front of Crowley. And so he doesn't say anything.

Satan scoffs. He takes a step closer.

Their backs press into the wall. There's nowhere to retreat.

"How do you think it feels," Satan continues in a conversational tone, "to have your own son, your own progeny for whom you have planned a glorious future, to whom you wanted to give the whole world to rule... how do you think it feels, to have that son disown you and replace you with a mere weak mortal because two incompetent idiots can't do their job properly and have to meddle with plans that were made before the first human ever drew breath?" He gets closer to them as he speaks and he seems to be growing, his voice getting angrier with every word.

"How do you think it feels?" he shouts, leaning over them, and behind his human likeness flickers a terrible figure with massive horns, crowned with fire.

The silence that follows is oppressive, demanding an answer.

"It... sucks?" Crowley quips, finding it hard to resist even in a situation like this.

The silence that follows is a drawn crossbow, containing sharp, lethal energy in its stillness. You can feel the strain in the string. You can feel the finger on the trigger. It does not fire, though. Not yet.

Satan straightens, raising an eyebrow. "It sucks, yes. Anything else?" he asks like a teacher luring an answer from an unresponsive class. But the finger on the trigger stays. They are well aware of that and do not dare to speak.

"No? Not even a guess? Well, I will tell you then. It _hurts_."

"I'm starting to see where this is going," Crowley murmurs. On purpose, this time. He's trying to capture Satan's attention, not letting it focus on Aziraphale.

A press of the angel's hand warns Crowley to not do that, but instead of snapping, Satan smiles. "Am I that predictable to you? Let us see together then..."

The chains shoot out like attacking vipers and connect to the shackles on Aziraphale's and Crowley's hands. They force their hands apart and up, towards the wall. Resistance is like trying to stop a train with a paper barrier. Nothing disproves Crowley's guess so far.

The chains bite into the wall, securing them firmly a few steps apart from each other.

"It's all about free will, isn't it, Crowley?" Satan asks. "You often mentioned that in your memos."

"Oh. Bless it. You... actually read them?"

"Of course. I've read all of them in the last three years."

"Ah yes. That makes sense. For a moment I thought... never mind." Crowley manages a smirk. He has nothing to lose at this point. Or he thinks so, at least.

"Right, where was I?" Satan asks an obviously rhetorical question. "Oh yes. Free will. Interesting thing, that. Principally, we shouldn't have it. Everything a demon does should be evil and everything an angel does should be good. But you have been around the mortals for too long. Learnt a thing or two, didn't you? You wrote that it's all about a choice. Creating the right conditions for a decision. So I'm going to do that. I'm going to give you a choice."

Crowley watches him warily.

"This suits me, actually," Satan continues. "I like my full focus being on one job at a time. And you were right, this is going to hurt. But which one of you, that is your choice. So, whom of you two should I hurt?"

And Crowley realizes he has a lot to lose. "Me," he says immediately, looking Satan straight into the eyes, as if daring him. "I messed up the delivery of the Antichrist. It's all my fault!"

"Hurt me!" Aziraphale blurts out, a hint of panic in his voice as he too understands the stakes.

"Angel, no!" Crowley struggles against his bonds to lean towards him. "I'm the one who wanted to avert the Apocalypse since the beginning!" he looks at Satan. "I tempted the angel into it! He just tagged along, it was my plan all the way!"

"No, the plan was mine!" Aziraphale pleads. "I cajoled him into caring for the world, so that when the end was nigh, he would be on my side! Without me, he would never have wanted to avert it!"

In his heart, Crowley knows that Aziraphale is right. He wouldn't have cared for the world that was supposed to end if the angel hadn't shared it with him. But he also knows that it was no plan.

"Bullshit!" he calls, hoping that Aziraphale won't take offence. "You didn't plan that! It wasn't your fault that I fell for you!"

And Satan just listens, His face expressionless as His gaze wanders between the two of them.

Aziraphale meets His fire-rimmed eyes, not looking at Crowley. "This is not about fault," he says quietly. "It is about choice. So, I have chosen. Hurt me."

"Aziraphale, no!" Crowley pleads. "You don't know what you are getting into! I can take it! I can take it better than you! I Fell, I'm a demon! It's alright, nothing new to me!"

Aziraphale just keeps his gaze locked with Satan's.

"No no no," Crowley is on the verge of panic, trying to draw that look to himself. "Hurt me! I have chosen! Hurt me!"

Finally, Satan turns to him. He takes a step closer. He lifts Crowley's chin, focusing His full attention on him. His eyes are a pool of boiling sulphur at the bottom of a millions of lightyears long Fall.

"Not convincing enough, darling," Satan whispers.

Again a silence like a drawn crossbow.

The chains move, dragging Aziraphale into the middle of the room. More chains appear to stretch his injured wings open.

The crossbow fires and hits Crowley in the gut with guilt.


	4. Magdalen walks

_The little white clouds are racing over the sky,  
_ _And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March, _

Aziraphale is aware of the position of his body, of the growing strain in his shoulders as his feet are barely touching the ground. His wings hurt as they are being stretched open. But it's his nakedness that's making him feel most uncomfortable and inadequate - like in those dreams that humans sometimes described, where they were in some public place and found out they were naked. He knows it's not his fault but he feels like it's him who forgot to dress appropriately for the occasion of being tortured by Adam's ex-dad.

Everything is fine, he's telling himself. Everything will be fine. They've always gotten out of any predicament they managed to land it. It's just a matter of enduring some discomfort. He's glad he managed to spare Crowley that unpleasantness.

He is aware of the way his essence is contained and trapped in the body, cut off from the miracles of Heaven. Unpleasantness indeed.

_The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch  
_ _Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by..._

The bonds on his hands are pulling up, straining his shoulders and making it difficult to stand. Sweat trickles down his face. Polite conversation is out of the question, it seems, and so he doesn't say anything.

_A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze, _

Reciting poetry in his mind helps. He can imagine a sunny spring in Oxford almost 150 years ago and doesn't need to focus on the burning whip that Satan is holding.

_The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth, _

He's not looking at the whip. He's not thinking about the way the flames curl around the three chains at the end, a sharp barb on every link. He's certainly not thinking about the way it would feel on his naked skin ...

_The birds are ..._

On his wings ...

"Just a warm-up exercise," Satan speaks up, addressing Crowley as if he were an audience. "Good for releasing pent-up frustrations."

"Ngk," Crowley says.

On Crowley's wings ._.._

Aziraphale grits his teeth with the thought. He knows that Crowley's former boss probably won't let the demon get away so easily. But maybe, if he can keep Satan's attention on himself for long enough, He will get bored, eventually? Lucifer has never been known for having much patience. Maybe, when those pent-up frustrations are released, He will lose interest. Determinedly, Aziraphale focuses on poetry, hoping it would help him to wait it out.

_The birds are singing for joy of the Spring's gla-_

The whip cracks.

Pain shoots through his body. White. Burning. Occupying all his thoughts: how selfish of it. How rude. He pushes it aside, like last year's tax reports.

_-glad birth. Hopping _

Another flame of white-hot pain licks his side. It brings forth the first one like a tax inspection.

_from _

Crack! His body jerks but he makes no sound. He feels something wet running down the small of his back.

_branch_

His mind eases into the pattern. A walk in a sunny Oxford spring. Every step a stab of fiery knife penetrating the illusion.

_to _

The grass in the park next to the Magdalene college smells of blood.

_branch _

New pain erupts but the old one never goes away. It stacks, higher and higher.

_on _

Dark spots are swimming in front of his eyes. His knees would buckle if the manacles weren't holding him upright.

_the _

He makes no sound. He doesn't want to worry Crowley.

_rocking _

Crowley is watching.

_trees._

Oh God, Crowley is watching. He must feel so bad about the situation.

The whip falls again and guilt shots through Aziraphale together with the pain. He can't remember the next stanza. All he can think about is how bad Crowley must feel, forced to watch this helplessly.

He moans in pain with the next lash. Immediately, he hates himself for it. Crowley must have heard that! He bites his lips.

When the whip cracks again, he bites hard enough to draw blood, but does not make a sound. He can't, he's already being selfish enough. He just wanted to spare Crowley the pain - it was an automatic response, he didn't think about it. But now he imagines how it would feel if their places were reversed and he realizes he got the better part of the deal. He couldn't bear to watch Crowley get hurt and he got what he wanted. Crowley didn't.

A tear mixes with the blood from his torn lips. He tries to turn his head to look at Crowley, to show him how sorry he is, but his strained body does not allow that movement. Crowley is just behind his back. Probably on purpose - he is getting the best look of it being torn to shreds.

Aziraphale's shoulders shake with a suppressed sob.

The whip whistles as it passes through the air. It connects with the raw, tender skin on his back, already torn by the previous lashes. Fire blossoms in its wake, then blood wells. And from somewhere deep in his throat, a cry of pain erupts and tears through his bloody lips.

It's still echoing between the mirrors. He hates himself for it. He doesn't even know if it's his own pain or his empathy to what Crowley must be going through right now that made him break his silence. He hears a choked sob from behind him - and that hurts even more.

He grits his teeth to not make a sound again. Never again. He must keep the pain inside - where Crowley can't see how big it is. Just a warm-up exercise. Oh Heavens, he really got soft.

You wanted this, he reminds himself. Better you than Crowley. If only Crowley didn't have to watch, it would be all tickety boo. You have to be strong, then. No other way to it. Be strong. Be-

The explosion of pain in his back steals his thoughts. It fills his whole body and rises directly into his throat like steam in a boiling kettle. He clenches his teeth and bites back the scream. He swallows it and forces it down: a ball of lead sinking into his stomach.

-strong.

He closes his eyes and tries to remember a spring in Oxford. Nevermind that he can't recall how far he got in the poem. He can start over.

_The little white clouds are racing over the sky..._

Dense, heavy balls of pain are sinking into his stomach one after one and he swallows them all. He's not thinking about it and he's not thinking about Crowley. He knows he would break if he did. Instead, he keeps his mind focused on familiar words.

He repeats them over and over in what seems like hours, like days, like months.

_And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire  
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring._

The swallowed pain is filling his insides, weighing him down like a lead balloon. Lead balloon... where does that ridiculous expression come from?

The park in front of the Magdalene college blurs into another garden. It may be spring there, who knows. Spring is a metaphor for new beginnings, after all.

He hears Satan's voice, saying something to Crowley. The words are buzzing around his ears, their meaning eluding him. He feels like drowning in molten metal.

But then Crowley replies, something short, monosyllabic only, but oh, how he cherishes hearing that voice.

_And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love..._

And then the whip strikes his wings.

His back arches in agony. His wings want to beat wildly, but they are held by the chains. The pain threatens to spill through his mouth, tasting of bile.

_The daffodil breaks under foot..._

It breaks.

He can't.

He forces the pain to stay hidden behind his lips, compresses it to fit inside like a neutron star collapsing into itself, like a star that Crowley made.

_...and the tasselled larch  
_ _Sways and swings…_

_Sways and swings..._

_Sways and swings..._

The whip falls again and again. The strokes blur into one long agony.

_...on the wings of the morning breeze... _

The pain is a dense, barbed thing, rooted deeply in his body, with angry branches stretching into his wings. No, not branches but tributaries: a centripetal structure, not a centrifugal one. More and more pain is flowing through them into the center of his being. It's pulsating with the rhythm of his heart, the wildly beating thing that drives his corporation's blood to well from his wounds like molten chocolate from a lava cake.

The pain is not trying to push through his lips anymore. It's too heavy, weighing him down. He's hanging in the shackles limply, not even knowing when his knees have buckled. His head is hanging too, giving him a view of the feathers gathering at his feet. He thinks - as much as he's capable of coherent thought still - that he is safe, he won't reveal the pain to Crowley. He doesn't have the strength to scream anymore.

But then the pain finds another way to spill. He feels hot tears welling in his eyes. They run down his cheek and then drip on the bloody feathers.

_...a quivering moon of fire ..._

His wings are twitching and jerking with every hit, but the chains holding them stretched keep them firmly in place, raw, hurting.

He feels violated with it. With all the blood, they are no longer white. He's losing feathers, losing their purity ... cut off from heavenly miracles, he's losing his angelic identity. And what a useless angel he is, unable to resist in any way, unable to make it any easier for Crowley.

_...the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove..._

The tears keep falling, hot and bitter.

* * *

Crowley managed to remain stoic for some time. He didn't want to give Satan any excuse to hurt the angel even more. If his former boss saw how much he cared for Aziraphale, if he saw how it hurts him to watch this, he might get ideas. Crowley didn't want him to get any ideas, oh no. He relaxed in the bonds. See? Perfectly indifferent face. Not caring at all.

It lasted for about five seconds. Maybe six, hard to tell. It was cracking already when Satan took his whip. There were legends Downstairs about that whip. Some argued it was an entity in its own right, some unhappy lower demon trapped in that form. Some said the handle was made from angel bone and the barbs from hellhound teeth. Anyone who had the pleasure of acquainting themselves more closely with it just said it hurt like hell... _hell's hell_.

A stream of _oh angel, oh angel, oh angel _was just going through Crowley's mind as Satan turned to him.

"Just a warm-up exercise," he said. "Good for releasing pent-up frustrations."

That was when it hit Crowley. Satan _knew_. Of course he knew how much he cared. The way he was positioned, with the best view of what was going to happen to Aziraphale, the way Satan spoke to him. This was a performance meant for him.

"Ngk," he said.

The satisfied spark in Satan's eyes as he turned back to the defenseless angel confirmed Crowley's feeling. That bastard! That oversized ox! Making him watch as he was hurting his angel! To heaven with pretense! Crowley furiously struggled against the bonds, hissing and squirming as he tried to change into a snake. But the shackles held fast and didn't let him do any such thing.

He froze at the crack of the whip. Like slow motion he saw it connecting with the soft, delicate skin. It broke it open like a ripe cherry, red juice flowing out. Only it wasn't juice.

Crowley gritted his teeth.

_oh angel oh angel oh angel oh angel_

Another lash, even stronger than the first. Aziraphale did not make a sound. Crowley had seen tough demons cry in pain at the first touch of that whip. But not his angel. Crowley's heart swelled with a mix of compassion and guilt and pride.

_Oh angel_...

The whip kept hitting and Aziraphale kept quiet.

Crowley wanted to close his eyes, he didn't want to watch how Satan is hurting his angel, didn't want to see his back being turned into mincemeat by a hellish whip - the back that he used to caress when preening impossibly soft angelic wings - he didn't want to watch, as if by not watching he could pretend it's not happening, he didn't want to, he didn't want to...

He didn't close his eyes. He blinked with every crack of the whip, but he didn't close his eyes. He watched intently, witnessing every drop of blood, every tremor of pain that ran through the angel's stretched form. He felt obliged to watch. It was the only thing he could do, the only way he could take his share of the punishment.

The blood followed the curves of Aziraphale's body, pooling in the creases above his waist and running down the small of his back, down his thighs... It felt so wrong, so inappropriate that Satan could see the same, could watch his angel like this.

Crowley was furious and horrified and his heart ached so much with every lash and he desperately wanted to do something but couldn't and feeling all of that at once was too much, too much, too much... It made his hands shake and restrained his lungs so that his breath was coming in short gasps. It made his heart beat wildly, like a desperate bird trying to escape from a cage. It made the cracks of the whip - the only sound in the room - fade into a distant buzz in his ears. And the flames. There were flames - on the whip or in the bookshop? Both. Both. The bookshop was burning and he was back there, helpless and losing Aziraphale.

Someone screamed.

It was a heartbreaking sound, full of pain and regret.

It brought Crowley back from one nightmare into another. It was Aziraphale who screamed. His angel, hurting so much! Surely regretting now that Crowley wasn't more convincing. Surely regretting that he volunteered in Crowley's place.

He sobbed, overwhelmed with guilt.

He didn't see how Satan smiled to himself.

The echo of the scream repeated in Crowley's ears over and over. With dread, he anticipated hearing it again, and all the pain in it... but it never came. The force of the falling whip made the blood welling from the previous lashes splash in droplets, but the angel made no sound again.

Crowley trembled, wondering if it was good or bad. Or, rather, bad or worse. Aziraphale's knees had buckled under the load of pain, but his head was partially lifted, so he was still conscious. But if that was bad or worse, Crowley couldn't tell. A part of his mind thought that it was incredibly brave, an act of defiance against his tormentor. He wished he could be defiant like that, but he only felt incredibly terrified and helpless and small.

_Oh angel_... _My angel... Oh Aziraphale..._

Suddenly he felt Satan's eyes on himself again.

"Well, wasn't that relaxing," the devil smiled like he was talking about a lovely play in cricket. And then he extended the whip to Crowley, handle first, blood dripping from the spikes at the end. "Would you like to try?"

Crowley froze. He watched the whip as if not comprehending the question. Surely it was some joke.

"Yes or no?" Satan insisted, his voice commanding.

"No!" Crowley cried out with a thinly veiled horror at the thought.

Satan shrugged. "Fine. I will go on, then."

Crowley understood where the whip is aimed in a terrible split second before it fell. He wanted to scream, but couldn't through the lump in his throat.

Those wings! So white, so graceful, so silky soft under his touch. The pleasant shiver that ran through them when Crowley's fingers found a sensitive spot! Now they were trembling with pain as a whip bit into those very spots.

Crowley watched the feathers drifting through the air with gentle, calm movements. Like cherry petals in spring. Like big, soft snowflakes in one of the few lovely winter days when it snows like that, complete with the quiet whisper that they make while falling. There's something innately graceful in a falling feather, and angel feathers have it in an even greater abundance. One could reach zen, observing a falling angel feather. Not these, though. They were torn and bloody and it felt wrong and sickening watching hundreds of them drifting in the infinite space between the mirrors like snowfall in a slaughterhouse.

He had to wonder what would happen if he said yes. He knew it was a trap, knew it was meant to make him feel even more guilt. He knew it, but it didn't matter. It was still damn effective. He still wondered if Aziraphale's wings would be spared if he accepted the whip and... oh angel... and took a turn at whipping that poor back... He couldn't. He knew he was too much of a coward for that. He wouldn't be able to bring himself to hurt his angel. But now Satan was hurting him, and it was so much worse. Maybe, if he said yes, he could have gone more slowly, give Aziraphale some reprieve at least... But he was getting no reprieve now. He was hanging limp in the shackles, but his wings kept trembling and twitching with every hit.

Satan was systematic: he started at the base and worked his way to the tips, left and right, left and right, tearing and bloodying the already damaged feathers until there was no whiteness left. Crowley hoped it would end then, he counted every inch of that slow, torturous progress.

*

Now Satan is getting to the last unmarked feathers and Crowley is holding his breath. He notices something bright, a little point of reflected light shivering and falling to the ground like a raindrop at night, reflecting the light from the window of a certain bookshop. Oh. Oh angel.

It's a tear.

Aziraphale is crying.

Crowley wants to rip that whip out of Satan's hand and break it into as many pieces as possible. He wants to do some nasty things to Satan as well. Imagination is a funny thing that can make an impossible thing look so vivid. Before anything else, though, he wants to take his angel into his arms and heal and kiss every nasty gash. With the miracles he doesn't have now. Thanks a lot, imagination. Now he is crying too.

The last unmarred feather. The last lash.

Is it over now? Crowley's lips are forming around the shape of a word he doesn't say aloud.

_Enough. Please, enough._

The whip rests for a while. More tears fall to the ground.

_Enough, please_...

Crack!

It's not enough.

It starts at the base again. It must hurt so much already, and now that pain is jarred even more. More and more.

Aziraphale's whole body is trembling like an aspen leaf. There are no more tears, just pained breaths: a quiet moan with every exhale, barely noticeable through the whistling of whip in the air and the rattling of its chains, but to Crowley, it's a sound that drills a gaping hole into his heart.

It feels like centuries. Like the whole fucking 14th century, three times over. The angel doesn't moan anymore. The shivers are ceasing, too. Then finally, finally the whip stops.

Satan turns and smiles. "Ah, that was lovely, wasn't it? Hope you two had at least as much of a good time as I did. I've got to go now, have a Hell to run, you know how that is. But don't worry, I'll be back soon."

He walks away casually and before stepping through the door that just formed in the wall, he snaps his fingers. The chains disappear and Crowley topples to the ground, landing on his hands and knees.

Aziraphale just falls. His body stirs the feathers covering the ground and sends them into a gentle flight again.

Crowley scrambles to him immediately, eyes wide and wild. "Aziraphale!"

The angel does not respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magdalen walks is a poem written by Oscar Wilde


	5. Expertise

The pipes were leaking again. Someone called for maintenance but nobody actually considered themselves maintenance these days. Someone's hand got bitten off in the following argument. No wonder, the hallways were even more crowded than usual. Many blokes from the deeper sections swarmed up for the fighting, and now they were eager to get some and refused to go back. Some crawled on the walls. Some licked them. 

A short demon with yellowish skin and a salamander on their head stood in place while the others paced around nervously. That created an obstacle in the hall and made the crowd even more nervous as they bumped into said demon or tried to evade them. But nobody dared to suggest them to move.

Soon most of the movement in the halls ceased, anyway. The TVs from various periods of the last five decades, give or take, that were placed near the ceiling at every corner, suddenly came to life with static. 

"Izzzz thizzz blessed thing working now?" sounded from each of the devices, more or less simultaneously. From most of them, at least. 

Salamander has been waiting under one that looked relatively new, with a big, flat screen, although cracked in one corner. A picture of Beelzebub flickered on it for a moment, replaced by static again. 

"...zzzzzztupid crap! Oh, now? Okay. So, listen here."

The picture of Beelzebub finally steadied, although the sound was still wonky. Or it was just Beelzebub's normal voice. 

"Yeah. We have all been a bit tense lately. Everybody knowzzzz whose fault it izzzzz, right? Not going to drag thizzz out, they're going to pay. And you'll get to see Boss in action, so, two birdzzz with one stone, eh? And here you have the birdzzzzzz. Enjoy."

There was some static again as the picture flickered in and out, moving up from Beelzebub's face to show a low angle of a room with a mirror for a ceiling and the two traitors inside, facing the Boss Himself.

The show started. It seemed that the traitor Crowley had the front seat. Beelzebub moved the camera (accompanied by more static and boos from the crowd in the halls) to get a better angle of what was going on. Then the picture was more or less steady, just with an occasional static or a thumb covering half of it. The transmission lasted for a few hours with very little variation, unless Beelzebub decided to change the angle or zoom in at some detail, but the crowds were entertained. 

Salamander was not impressed. The demons around them cheered, but they just watched with clinical interest and occasionally commented towards a fellow with black and white facepaint in front of them or to the axolotl demon at their side. The axolotl seemed more interested. Amphibian solidarity, maybe. Or just that perpetually juvenile expression in his face.

*

This part of the show seems to be nearing its end now. Everybody sees that the angel can’t take much more.

“Crowley! Crowley!” or “Crawly! Crawly!” the crowd cheers. It’s the snake’s turn. 

But instead of giving a proper beating to Crowley as well, Satan just leaves.

A discontented silence stretches in the halls as the demons wait to see if Satan returns.

"Amateurish," salamander scoffs into it.

Axolotl looks around. "Dunno. Seemed quite impressive to me," he says slowly. 

Satan does not return.

Salamander snorts. "Yes. Impressive whip. Any amateur can make an impression with a whip like that. Brute force and a tool that does all the work, where's the subtlety in that?"

Axolotl takes a careful step to the side, trying for his own good to not be seen associating with someone who speaks about the Boss like that.

"Now I," salamander continues, "I would start with a long, sharp needle. It's amazing how much you can do with a simple needle."

"I would start with an axe," the black-and-white-facepaint grunts.

Salamander rolls their eyes. "Oh please. So very subtle. I tell you, I can inflict as much pain with a needle as He can with that fancy whip of his."

"Dunno," facepaint says doubtfully. "I've heard it's enchanted somehow. It should enhance the pain it causes tenfold, I've heard."

Salamander makes a thoughtful expression. "I heard five. Okay. Give me  _ two _ needles."

"Didn't look like it," another demon with a praying mantis on her head joins the discussion. "The angel only screamed once. I bet I could make him scream more, I tell ya."

Salamander raises one eyebrow. "I don't think so. How many angels have you tortured, exactly? If you had any experience at all, you'd be able to tell that he was at that stage when one is too exhausted to scream, right at the end. He just got there without screaming, I've got to give that to him. Based on his looks, I wouldn't guess him to be that tough."

"And how many angels have  _ you _ tortured, smartass?"

"I'm glad you ask. Three."

"Oh?"

Several demons turn at that, watching the salamander with interest.

"You wouldn't be Duke Musdur from the Seventh Circle, would you?" asks one.

"Oh yes. I would be," salamander grins wryly.

"You tortured three angels?" facepaint asks with awe.

"I did. During the War. Most of your lot weren’t even Fallen yet."

"What happened to them?"

"What do you think happened? Two discorporated. One Fell."

"Oh. So you think that the traitor angel might Fall, too?"

"With this technique? Not likely."

"I've got to agree with the Boss, though," axolotl says slowly, despite the shift in the mood. "It's about the show, not about the torture itself. How much blood would you get with your needles? Maybe you could get more pain for him, but we want blood."

"We want Crawly's blood, too," someone snarls. "He never touched Crawly."

"I would not stop at needles," salamander says. "Or deprive the show of blood-"

"Crawly's!" 

"Yes, Crowley's too. I'm just saying I would get much more pain out of the same damage."

"Why didn't you apply then? There were adverts," facepaint says. 

Praying mantis casually looks up from eating the axolotl's head. "Yeah, why didn't ya apply?"

"I did. I came all the way from the Seventh circle for it. But expertise is not what gets you the job these days, it seems."

"Maybe you wouldn't get it anyway. I applied too," facepaint says.

"With your axe?" salamander snorts. "Children's toy..."

"Wanna try it?"

"I'm more interested in why He didn't touch Crawly," mantis snarls. "Can you give us your  _ expertise _ on that?"

Duke Musdur scratches their chin and looks at the screen thoughtfully. The transmission continues, but most demons lost interest in it after it became clear that Satan won’t return. There's not much going on right now. But Musdur watches intently and the demons around them get quiet as well and follow their look.

* * *

Crowley is cradling Aziraphale’s still form in his black wings. He has stretched them on the ground like a soft blanket and laid the angel face-down on them, minding his ravaged back and wings. He’s holding Aziraphale’s head in his lap and caressing the disheveled fluffy hair now, his touch careful and gentle like holding something very, very fragile and precious. Traces of tears are glistening on Crowley’s cheeks, but he’s not trying to wipe them away. He’s not trying to wake Aziraphale, either. It would be selfish. The angel deserves a reprieve. The longer he can be out of it, the better.

Crowley is sobbing. He knows they are probably observed, but he doesn’t care.

And then the reprieve is over. Aziraphale moans and a tremor runs through his body.

“Angel... “ Crowley breathes out, leaning over him to see his face.

Aziraphale’s eyelids flutter open, revealing unfocused blue eyes, clouded by pain. His body tenses and his breath hitches: breathing in through clenched teeth, breathing out with a moan.

Crowley touches his cheek with a cool hand. “Aziraphale, love…”

Aziraphale’s eyes follow the direction of the voice and finally focus on Crowley’s face. “C… Crowley…” he whispers. It’s a quiet, weak sound, full of regret.

Crowley caresses his cheek gently. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

But Aziraphale lowers his eyes and sobs. “I’m sorry…”

Crowley is genuinely puzzled. “What? What for?”

Aziraphale just shakes his head, another sob stealing his words. He’s trembling with pain.

“Easy,” Crowley soothes. “There’s nothing you should be sorry for. Absolutely nothing, do you hear me? You’ve been so very brave, my angel, my brave angel…” He knows he’s babbling, but he can’t bear that guilty look in Aziraphale’s face,

Aziraphale still refuses to meet his eyes. “S-Sorry… you had to… watch that…” he gulps, biting back a moan. “Sorry… been selfish… didn’t want to… to see you hurting…”

Crowley’s expression goes blank as he is processing that.

"Selfish? You call that selfish? Ngk. Angel. Are you serious? You self-sacrificing idiot! You do something like this and you call it selfish?" His hands are shaking, but he is very careful to not shift and stir Aziraphale in his lap. 

"Yes..." the angel whispers regretfully. "See how worried you are?"

"Oh for Someone's sake, Aziraphale!"

"God's."

Crowley has lost the trail of his thoughts. "What?"

"For... God's sake..." Aziraphale whispers through a moan. "Someone... Someone could be both of them and..."

"Yeah," Crowley catches up, his voice softening. "God's much less likely to actually listen and walk in... unfortunately."

Aziraphale sighs and Crowley tries to get back to his original thought. What was he...? Ah, yes.

"For God's sake, Aziraphale! Of course I am worried! I'm just as worried as you would be if I got the lashing! But if it were me lying here covered in my own blood, I would not worry about worrying you, bless it! I would just wallow in self-pity and let you pamper me! See? Same amount of pain, but only half of the worrying between the two of us, if you would let me take your place, you biblical misprint!"

Aziraphale breathes out on an echo of a chuckle at that. 

"Besides," Crowley pulls out his trump card, "you’re making me worried by being worried for me. It's an infinite spiral, you see?"

Aziraphale considers that. It's clear that he is exhausted and not at his best mental capacity, because he accepts Crowley's point. 

"I... I'll try..." he whispers. "Not to worry. Hard to do, though..."

"I know..." Crowley caresses his hair. "I know."

"Won't... wallow in self-pity, either. It doesn't feel as bad..." With a wince, he shifts a little so he can look into the mirror at the state of his wings, and shivers involuntarily as he sees them, "...as it looks."

"Of course, angel," Crowley says with that tone he uses when Aziraphale is lying and they both know it, but he still pretends it's truth. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes and lets Crowley caress his hair. His expression is taut, though, his teeth clenched. Occasionally, a tremor runs through his wings and his whole body tenses.

"You were amazing," Crowley says suddenly, his voice hoarse. "You never gave Him the satisfaction of showing pain. You should be proud of yourself."

Aziraphale looks at him with a slight confusion. "I just didn't want to worry you... and I screamed, anyway. Pathetic."

"Pathetic? Pathetic! Angel, you..." Crowley shakes his head. "Only you can do something so incredibly brave and consider it pathetic. You stayed quiet because you didn't want to worry me?"

"Recited poetry to myself," Aziraphale whispers, sounding very vulnerable, worried that he inadvertently did something that actually made Crowley feel bad.

Crowley leans closer and reverently kisses his cheek. "Trust me, please. I am a demon, I have seen a lot. You were amazing. Anyone watching would say that."

Aziraphale sobs, hiding his face in Crowley's lap. His wings twitch again and he grits his teeth. "It didn't feel that way," he whispers when the wave of pain abates.

"I don't think it ever does," Crowley sighs. "That's why I'm telling you, okay? No need for doubting yourself. Own it, angel."

Aziraphale shivers, keeping his face hidden. "He will come again, won't he? I thought I could keep Him from hurting you, but that's pathetic, too, isn't it? He will come again..."

Crowley keeps caressing Azirapahle’s hair without an answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is strict. "If we get a choice again, you are not volunteering, is that clear? It should be obvious, but one can't be sure with you, so. My turn. Or I will be very much worried and it'll be your fault. You don't want that."

Aziraphale shivers and Crowley's voice softens. "I'll be fine, okay? Just don't look. Recite poetry or something. He's doing it on purpose. He knows how much we care... It's what He wants, to hurt us inside and out... but you will be amazing and brave again, right? My brave angel..."

He feels like a hypocrite, asking Aziraphale to do something he wasn't able to. But he is a coward. Aziraphale is strong. He just doesn't believe it about himself.

Aziraphale's hand moves, seeking his. Crowley takes it and presses it slightly, reassuringly. With that, Aziraphale finally turns his head and looks at him. There are tears in his eyes. "We’re not getting out of this, are we?" 

Crowley grits his teeth. "Maybe not today or tomorrow. Not with His full attention on us. But eventually, there has to be a chance. And we will use it, alright? We will use it."

Aziraphale lets Crowley's outward confidence lull him. "Alright," he whispers, clinging to Crowley's hand as pain rises and abates like tide. "I love you," he whispers, as if making sure to say it in case he doesn’t get another chance.

* * *

Duke Musdur finally shakes their head. "No idea. We may see when the show continues. Maybe He's got something special prepared for Crowley."


	6. Nursery rhymes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get intense in this chapter. Sorry!

Time has little meaning here. Seconds bounce back and forth between the mirrors, hours stretch infinitely or run too fast, as they please. It can only be measured with pained breaths and whispered soothing words, by quiet moans and gentle caresses.

It feels too soon when the door opens again. 

Satan doesn't even have the decency to make a properly ominous entrance. He just strolls in like a corporate employee clocking in for work on Monday morning.

Crowley straightens his back but does not want to move Aziraphale, lying on his wings. 

Aziraphale moves on his own, though. He slowly gets to his hands and knees. He sways a little, but steadies himself with Crowley's help. Fresh blood wells from his wounds as they are stirred, but he hides the pain behind gritted teeth. He pushes himself up into a sitting position and calmly meets Satan's look.

_ My brave angel_, Crowley thinks sadly, wishing he could send him away for what was to come. He gets up, facing Satan with bravado he doesn't feel inside. "My turn," he says, making two steps forward. 

Satan smiles. "Oh no, darling. Don't be so impatient. I'm afraid I'm not finished here yet." 

With a movement of Satan's hand, the chains appear and drag Crowley back to the wall, into the hated helpless position and Aziraphale is pulled forwards, leaving a trail of blood where his wings drag on the floor. He shivers, but doesn't resist as they are stretched to their full length. 

Crowley, on the other side, freezes in horror for a few seconds and then starts struggling furiously. He's twisting and bending his arms into impossible angles as he tries to escape from his bonds. 

"Fuck you!" he screams. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! You're afraid of me or something? Yeah, you must be afraid that I'll tease you about being a terrible dad if you hit me! 'Cause I was there for your kid when he was growing up and you weren't! Well, it technically wasn't your kid, but I thought it was! I sang him nursery rhymes! And you never showed up anyways! You just come when he's eleven and expect him to obey you 'cause he has your genes or whatever? Well, it doesn't work like that!"

Satan turns His head to Crowley with an outward calm but with a look that would make Hell freeze over. "Shut. Up."

Crowley smirks madly, sensing an opening. "Yeah? I don't feel like shutting up. I feel like giving you a lecture on raising kids. Should have done that long ago, maybe you wouldn't be such a failure as a father then!"

Aziraphale moans. "Crowley..."

Satan now turns fully and walks over to the helpless demon, his form getting more menacing, the crown of horns on his head blazing with infernal fire. 

Crowley licks his dry lips, his thoughts scattering under that look like a herd of deer after a gunshot. He collects himself, though. "Individual. Is my point. You have to treat your kids like an individual. With less experience maybe, but no less right to an opinion."

"_ You _ have no right to an opinion here," Satan says with a cold menace.

_ Oh my gosh, a clever comeback_, Crowley wants to say mockingly, because it's hard to come up with a clever comeback of his own with the personification of Evil staring right at him. 

He gets no chance to say it though, as Satan grabs his chin and forcefully pulls his lips together. He digs His claws into them. They grow, piercing the skin and flesh. 

Crowley cries out, but the sound is muffled and trapped in his throat as his lips are sealed shut. The claws curl, forming hooks, and then they break off. 

Crowley struggles against his bonds, blood dripping down his chin and tears down his cheeks.

Satan takes a little nail file from the pocket of His suit and carefully polishes His sharp nails. "Now that this is taken care of, where were we? Ah yes, unfinished work." 

He observes Aziraphale for a while and then makes a gesture. The chains shift, positioning the angel so that he faces Crowley this time. 

Aziraphale looks up and gasps at the sight of his demon’s pierced, bloody lips, but Crowley’s look is too intense to resist. It draws him away from the cruel sight, into the swirls of warm gold. Their eyes meet, full of concern and sorrow - for each other. Always for each other. The corners lift just a little, softening the grief with a hint of encouragement and love. _ I am here with you. Always. _

Crowley is not struggling anymore. He knows it’s no use. Defeated, he just holds Aziraphale’s look. It’s so much better, being face to face. It’s the only way he can support him now, letting his eyes speak for his silenced lips. It’s so much worse, being face to face. He can’t let Aziraphale see what a mess he is, can’t let him see how every drop of the angel’s blood is like boiling lava dropped on his heart. He’s running his tongue along the sharpness in his mouth, tasting blood and pain. He pokes it, but it’s not enough. It’s so little compared to the pain his angel is in. He wants to take it from him, take it all to himself, like a greedy hoarder. But he knows he can’t and Aziraphale knows it too.

Nothing outside of those golden eyes exists for Aziraphale. A much better distraction than poetry, being able to receive the love in that look and send his own across the space that separates them. But at the back of his mind, there is still a little thought, curling into itself and shivering in expectation of more pain. Any moment now. Now. Now? The pain is coming. It’s bad already. Everything hurts so much and it’s going to be much worse. Now? Now? He winces when he feels a movement on his side. A little wave of heat coming from there, maybe? He doesn’t look there. He keeps looking at Crowley. 

Something touches his wings. It’s a gentle touch. A hand running along the torn feathers, smoothing them, just like Crowley used to when taking care of them. But it’s nothing like his demon’s touch. He tenses with it and the treacherous frightened thought makes a whimpering noise at the back of his throat. The gentleness is mocking. There can be no gentleness when touching raw, open wounds without even acknowledging them. The touch runs from the tip of one wing, across his back and to the tip of the other one. 

Aziraphale is breathing fast, his heart pounding in his ears. And from somewhere on his left, the heat keeps coming like from a bonfire or an open furnace. 

When reaching the tip of the right wing, Satan continues along the inner side. There, the feathers are still mostly white. He runs a finger across Aziraphale’s chest, leaving a thin reddened scratch. 

As Satan passes in front of him, the connection with Crowley’s look is broken for a moment. Aziraphale can’t help himself, his eyes dart to the side to look where the heat is coming from. He wishes he hadn’t. 

Satan continues to the tip of the other wing, closing the possessive circle around His prey. Aziraphale’s gaze meets with Crowley’s again and he can tell that Crowley saw it too. The flames are reflecting in the widened serpent eyes. 

The flames of a burning furnace, with several branding irons being heated to an orange-yellow glow. 

That’s why the wait. Because doing it with a miracle is just not the same as the real thing.

Aziraphale prays. _ Oh God, oh God, oh God_, is his prayer. There are no other words to carry his plea.

God does not answer.

And Crowley can’t.

“The other side of the canvas is still empty,” Satan says, turning to Crowley. “It would be a shame to leave it that way, don’t you think?” 

That’s why they are face to face. So Crowley can see it. The fire of the furnace is reflected in tears.

Aziraphale gathers his resolve and pushes all his gentleness into his gaze. By trying to reassure Crowley that he can take whatever comes, he manages to convince himself about it too, a little… maybe. Just enough for that little scared thought to accept what’s happening. 

And then an unbearable heat touches his chest. 

Searing pain shoots from it into his whole body. 

His wings twitch, his head is thrown back in agony. There is the smell of burning skin and flesh. 

The scream starts deep at the back of his throat and tears out of it like water through a crack in the dam, the stream breaking and crumbling the wall.

It's not enough. The vocal cords of this body are not strong enough to express how much it hurts. He screams and screams, and the pain only grows, lasting for what feels like days although it can’t be more than minutes.

Crowley is shattering inside with that scream. His thoughts are frozen in horror, his eyes drawn to the smoke rising from the branding iron. 

Finally the metal comes off, its glow now dulled to dark red, revealing a horrid shape of a demonic sigil burned into Aziraphale's chest. Bits of charred skin are stuck to it and Crowley feels sick. He swallows back the bile in his throat. 

Aziraphale's scream has died off now and all that Crowley can hear are his shuddering irregular gasps for air. His thoughts return in fragments. The first, echoing in his mind absurdly, is that he's never going to eat anything grilled ever again. 

The second draws his look to the nasty sigil-shaped burn. ** _The Adversary_ **, it says and Crowley's heart sinks because he understands now. Satan is marking his angel with the title that Adam refused to take. Other thoughts catch up then, tripping over each other and scrambling forward with Aziraphale's name on their lips. 

They make him look up from the ominous burn and meet Aziraphale's eyes just as they focus again, despite their glossiness. The look that passes between them is a wordless prayer to and for each other.

It's interrupted by a glowing branding iron pressed to Aziraphale's belly. 

** _Destroyer of Kings_ **

The sizzling of fat can't be heard through the heartbreaking scream.

Aziraphale can't breathe, can't think, can't perceive anything but the pain, his body convulsing with its waves. He's drowning under them. Only when the final wave passes over him as the iron is torn away can a thought emerge. 

Crowley's eyes. A steady point in that maelstrom. Crowley said something before… while he could talk. He should try reciting poetry in his mind again. Spring? There was one about spring. He can't remember it. He feels panic setting in. Did he forget everything? He searches his mind for any poem, any rhyme. He can hear Satan's steps, nearing from the left. Crowley said something about nursery rhymes. He can feel the radiant heat of the branding iron. 

_ Ring around the rosy _ _  
_ _ A pocketful of posies... _

The burning sigil is pressed to his inner thigh and he screams in agony. 

** _Angel of the Bottomless Pit_ **

_ "Ashes, Ashes" _ _  
_ _ We all fall down! _

It's about the plague, he thinks in a haze. The pink rash spots surrounded by circular rings. The flowers to mask the stench. The piles of dead bodies, burning, burning... And an angel and a demon, walking among them, doing so much but not enough, never enough… He’s searching for Crowley’s eyes again but his vision is getting blurry. He said something before...

The pain swallows him again, focusing in the bend of his elbow. 

** _Great Beast that is called Dragon_ **

He screams, forgetting everything else. 

Then he hangs limply in the bonds. He struggles to look up. Crowley’s eyes… so full of worry. Sorry, so sorry… A simple rhyme. Any simple rhyme…

_ “Johny, Johny.” _ _  
_ _ “Yes papa?” _

He’s heard this one from Crowley, singing to Warlock. 

_ “Eating sugar?” _ _  
_ _ “No papa.” _

A simple rhyme. New. Nothing sinister about its history...

_ “Telling lies?” _ _  
_ _ “No papa.” _ _  
_ _ “Open your mouth.” _ _  
_ _ “Ha ha ha!” _

He looks at Crowley’s poor mouth and sobs. 

The sob turns into a scream.

** _Prince of This World_ **

It’s harder and harder for any thought to surface above the pain that’s flooding his mind like the rising water in Mesopotamia, swallowing cities and men and women and children, bloated bodies floating on the waves… 

Crowley’s eyes. 

He said something to Satan, something that Aziraphale wants to remember like it’s his lifeline. What was it? What was it?

** _Father of Lies_ **

It’s harder to raise his gaze to meet Crowley’s eyes. There are tears in them. And blood is dripping from his lips like red wine. They used to drink it together… Dolphins. No. Individual. Is my point. A right to an opinion.

That’s it. That’s what he wants to cling to when the next wave of pain- 

** _Spawn of Satan_ **

The pain lasts for eternity. He can’t even tell if he is still screaming. 

Individual. That’s how Crowley treats everyone. That’s how he treated him, since the beginning. Like an individual, not just a number. The other angels have never treated him like that. Only Crowley has. Dear Crowley… 

** _Lord of Darkness_ **

The scream is hoarse, like the wail of a wounded animal. He just wants the pain to stop. _ No more. Please, no more… _

He hears Satan talking to Crowley, saying something that echoes his thought. He forces himself to focus. No more, he’s saying. There will be no more pain if… if…

“...the last sigil. You mark him with your sigil and we are done. Or I could have one more round with the titles of my son, since I have no other use for them now. So, what do you say? Ah, sorry. Just nod, then.” Satan says, offering Crowley the last branding iron. It bears the sigil of a twisted snake. 

The terrible weight of Satan’s words sinks through the haze of pain that Aziraphale is swimming in. For a moment, his mind is clear. Oh, how he wishes for the pain to stop. But not like this. Never like this. It will break Crowley’s spirit if he has to hurt him. And Crowley’s spirit is more precious to him than his own body. 

He raises his head, the effort costing all strength he has left. 

Crowley watches his precious angel, the terrible burns covering his body and imagines more of them. He imagines one more burn, the branding iron held in his hand as it sears the angel’s flesh. He can’t… He can’t. He is a coward. But he has to. He feels like he has no tears left. And then their eyes meet. 

“No,” Aziraphale whispers in a voice hoarse from screaming - his first word since Satan entered the room. “Don’t. Please.” 

Crowley sobs. He closes his eyes, hanging his head in defeat. 

A moment passes. The silence is tense. The snake sigil is searing its glowing shape into the backs of his eyelids. He opens his eyes and slowly turns his head from side to side. His answer to Satan. No. 

An echo of a smile brushes Aziraphale’s lips. 

It dies with a scream that stirs the bloody feathers on the ground and shakes the mirrors as the sigil of the Adversary presses to the angel’s wings.

There’s no coming to the surface anymore. The pain drags Azirapahle down, always down into its jaws, crushing him and swallowing. His body convulses and screams, but he’s not aware of it anymore. He’s not aware of the moment when the screams get weaker and weaker and die down in exhausted silence. He’s only aware of the pain and the fragments of thoughts, begging for it to stop. He’s begging God to stop it. He’s begging Crowley to stop it. It does not stop.

* * *

“You know,” Duke Musdur says to the little group gathered around him, “I think I’m starting to understand.”

Some demons around them cheer every time the angel screams and then also when he doesn’t, but others watch Crowley, whose punishment has been utterly unsatisfying to them so far, and grumble. 

Musdur has also been watching Crowley and studying his face whenever the camera angle allowed it. 

“I think…” they say slowly, like giving a verdict of a jury, “I think that Satan is actually punishing him right now. Look at his face. He looks like he is being tortured himself. He clearly is in pain. I would say He’s given him some poison that’s hurting him while Boss is busy with the angel.”

The demons around him nod. It seems like a plausible explanation.


	7. Censorship

The room is bright, with white walls and ceiling. There are three tripods with little white cameras and one more placed on a drone, flying noiselessly above the floor that appears to not actually be there. It's made of glass and enables a good look into the room below, giving an impression of floating to everything in the room. It requires some getting used to looking down - it seems more like a bottomless shaft than a room, until one realizes that the objects and persons down there are repeated at regular intervals. Some trick with mirrors, then. There's an office table with a white ergonomic chair floating on the far side of the room, and an Archangel sitting behind it.

Gabriel presses a keyboard shortcut on a very sleek and modern laptop and absently swats at a fly. He is leaning close to the screen and frowning in focus, replaying parts of some recording in his expensive headset.

When another fly buzzes in front of his nose, he looks up. He puts down the headset right when more flies appear and Beelzebub opens the door. There is just a little faltering in the step of the Prince of Hell as they regard the seemingly bottomless pit they are going to step in. They take the cautious step forward on the glass and then stroll into the room.

"I'm busy," Gabriel mutters, frowning at the screen.

Beelzebub rolls their eyes. "Who isn't, these dayzzz." They casually glance down at a scene that resembles Michelangelo's Pieta. "So, not going smoothly on this side either, is it?"

"What would you expect? He's really making it difficult."

"I know, I know. He's not following the script at all." Beelzebub sits down at the side of Gabriel's pristine desk, leaving unidentifiable yellowish stains on it. They rub the bridge of their nose. "They are all calling for Crowley's blood and doezzz he give to them? No! He's playing his mind gamezzz..."

"I would say it's quite effective, though," Gabriel smirks. "Have you seen Crowley crying? I wouldn't have thought I'd see a demon cry so easily."

Beelzebub scoffs. "Oh please. He'zzz not a proper demon anymore."

"Maybe not, but-"

"Do not get any ideazzz..." Beelzebub hisses, leaning towards the archangel menacingly.

"Who, me?" Gabriel raises his hands with a fake smile.

Beelzebub rolls their eyes. "The mind gamezzz might be effective, but my damn lot Downstairs is too dumb to get them. They want blood."

"Aziraphale's is not enough?"

"It's just a teazzze. They are waiting for Crowley's and are getting more agitated with the wait. Just the opposite of what we wanted."

"What you wanted. I don't care whether your crowd is eating each other or whatever."

"They are."

"Whatever."

"So I take it it's all going smoothly on your side, right?" Beelzebub drawls sarcastically. "Nothing a bit of cenzzzorship wouldn't fix, eh?"

Gabriel clenches his fist. The air smells of ozone.

"Yeeeah, I see," Beelzebub scoffs. "So what's going on Upstairs? Not some weird ideazzz about mercy, I hope?"

"Well, there might be if we showed it to them as it is. Still working on it."

"Oh, come on. You still haven't shown them? Wasn't it supposed to be a livestream?"

Gabriel shifts in his seat, shooing away a fly. "Not anymore. Absolutely not with your Boss there. We're making it into a series, half an hour, maximum an hour long. That's about how much useful material I've got, thank you very much."

Beelzebub leans over the screen of the laptop with interest. "Ooh, I liked that part."

"We can't use it."

"Why not?"

"Your damned Boss is using a whip that identifies him to anyone who has heard about it or can google images. I can GDPR out his face, but can you give a good reason to blur the tools?"

"Uh… you could censor the blood as well and say it's supposed to be PG-13?"

Gabriel scowls at the Prince of Hell who is clearly making fun of him. "Thanks for the suggestion," he says icily. "Or I can just screen The Sound of Music again, it would have the same effect."

"You know Gabe… You might be onto something," Beelzebub grins at the archangel who is obviously serious - which is even worse.

Gabriel is not listening to him. He's tapping his finger on the table, thinking about something. "Say," he finally turns to Beelzebub, "don't you have a generic demon who would be willing to do some shots with a generic whip in front of a green screen?"

"Hmmm… You want to use them in your little propaganda shot instead of Satan?"

"Obviously."

"You will pay them a fair wage in favours."

"Ugh. You're going to be their agent and take a percentage, I take it?"

"Of courzzze. I'm thinking about 98%."

Gabriel looks at the scene that's paused on his screen and sighs. "Fine. What's it going to be this time? Tech support?"

"Plumbing."

"Again?"

Beelzebub shrugs. "I've got someone in mind. I'll prepare the contract."

"Fine, fine." Gabriel keeps staring at the screen, refusing to show his relief at not having to hire and erase the memory of an animation studio.

"By the way, speaking of cenzzzorship…"

Gabriel looks up. "Yes?"

"Any chance you could send someone to clean up? It's getting hard to get a good camera angle through the blood and feathers on the floor."

"Ask your Boss. I'm not going to mess with his games."

"Okay. Right. Thought so." Beelzebub sighs and slowly stands up.

Gabriel raises his eyebrows questioningly. "Something else?"

Beelzebub rolls their eyes. "Nah. I just thought I would enjoy this much more. Didn't you?"

"If it makes you feel better - not that I would want to make you feel better, perish the thought! - I've been looking forward especially to the Aziraphale part and I don't even have time to watch now. The cook goes hungry or the shoemaker's kids barefoot or whatever that saying is. That's the fate of us leaders."

"Oh, stuff yourself with a stick, Gabe… Wait, look! What's that idiot Crowley doing now?"

* * *

The smell of burnt feathers is making the air heavy and stifling. The black wings are wrapped around a shivering angel, lying on his back with his head in Crowley's lap. There is no position that would be less painful for Aziraphale. His back and the other side of his wings are crisscrossed by deep gashes. Other places including the insides of the angel's wings are marred with burns: the full titles of the Antichrist on his body and on each wing. Aziraphale is drifting in and out of consciousness. His eyes are half-open now, but they are unfocused and glossy with fever. His breath is coming in short gasps.

Crowley hums the melody of Schubert's String Quintet deep in his throat, as well as he can manage. He can't speak to his angel, can't reassure him as his eyes get a wild look and he whimpers and tries to curl into himself and then cries out weakly as the movement makes the pain blaze in a new flame. He holds Aziraphale's hand, caresses his hair. He can't even kiss him from fear of hurting him with the sharp claws holding his lips shut.

His thoughts are scattered. He can't get rid of the image of a burning bookshop, the red-hot snake sigil slithering through the fire. He can't get rid of the voices accusing him of not sparing Aziraphale the sixteen burns on his wings for the price of just one.

_Shut up! Shut up!_ He sobs inside his head.

Aziraphale's eyes get wild and scared again. Crowley can take a good guess at what the images in Aziraphale's mind are. Satan in his black lawyerish suit, pressing the branding iron to his chest, to his wings...

It could be Crowley. If he took the offer, it would be an image of Crowley, doing the same. Sixteen for one. Would it be worth it?

Aziraphale raises his hand as if trying to protect himself. The burn on the inside of his elbow oozes blood and yellowish plasma with the motion. Aziraphale makes a keening sound in the back of his throat and his eyes roll up again.

Crowley throws his head back and cries out in frustration and despair, the cry never making it past his lips. Then he looks down again and takes a deep breath. Enough! Furiously, he reaches for one of the claws in his lips and pulls. He's not trying to pry the hook open. He has already tried that, it's no use. The claws are unyielding. But they are sharp and his flesh yields, when he pulls hard enough.

He grits his teeth and breathes through the pain. He deserves it. He deserves every bit of it. Sixteen for one...

With a final yank the blasted manicure job comes off and he is left with a mouthful of blood and a gash in his lips, opening like a grotesque smile.

His hands are shaking, but he doesn't stop and immediately reaches for another one.

Five times he does that. Five bloodied claws fall to the floor and he follows the last one with his gaze and dares to look into the mirror. It takes a moment for his vision to focus. There's nothing suave about the demon staring back at him from the mirror, dripping blood all over it. He is pale and panting like he has run a marathon or taken the stairs to his flat instead of the lift. He has disgusting serpent eyes and doesn't even try to hide the fact that he has been crying for the last few hours or however long it is since Satan left. And his lips are torn to strips like some damned bloody tassels. Those from his lower lip are hanging down, revealing teeth like a distasteful Halloween decoration. Fucking great. He's going to give the angel nightmares with a face like that.

Aziraphale whimpers in pain and Crowley immediately stops studying his reflection.

"Azirahale," he says, wincing when his lower lip tries to move with the "ph". Thankfully there are no labial consonants in the name. _Angel_ is better, though. "Angel..."

But Aziraphale just sighs and drifts away again.

Crowley clenches his teeth. He wishes he could do a miracle and heal him. Many miracles, by the looks of it. He wouldn't stop while there was even a scratch left on Aziraphale and at least a drop of power left in himself. He digs his fingers into the bonds. They are tight, unyielding. No miracles for his angel.

His gaze falls on the mirror floor again. His teeth are showing between the torn lips. They are sharper than human ones and that gives him an idea.

* * *

"Fuck!" Gabriel jumps up from his seat, knocking the headset off the table.

The air crackles with electricity as the archangel snaps his fingers. Beelzebub snaps theirs at the same time.

Together they watch Crowley shaking in an electric shock.

"Heh. Wouldn't guess he had it in him to try to bite off his thumb to take off the bonds. That popcorn would be nice now," Beelzebub mutters.

The shock subsides slowly. The ripples of electricity are still coursing through him, but Crowley fights against them as he raises his hand to his mouth again, clenched into fist, only the middle finger extended.

Gabriel raises his hand too, but Beelzebub stops him with a gesture. "Watch this," they grin.

Crowley seems surprised that no more shocks come. Quickly he puts the base of his thumb into his mouth and bites with all the force he can muster.

Nothing happens.

He bites harder, then takes his hand out of his mouth and looks at it in disbelief. There's no trace of teeth on it.

"What did you do?" Gabriel asks with interest.

"Invulnerability spell on his handzzz," Beelzebub says smugly.

"Oh. Good thinking," Gabriel admits. It is clear he's still shaken by what nearly happened, otherwise he would never say such a thing to Beelzebub.

"Yeah. Your solution wazzz shitty, long-term."

"I would have thought of something else soon, I'm sure. Why aren't they chained, anyway?"

"Because He told me not to," Beelzebub says icily.

Gabriel grimaces. "The torturer was supposed to obey us, not give orders."

"Well Gabe, not everyone's boss leaves them to do as they pleazzze." Beelzebub spits out a fly and turns to leave.

* * *

"Huck yu!" Crowley cries out, clenching his fists. "Huck yu..." he sobs.

"Crowley?" An exhale as weak as a flutter of butterfly wing brushes his face, carrying his name.

The sobs stop immediately. "Angel!"

Aziraphale is watching him, his eyes glossy with pain and fever but alert. "C-Crowley... Your mouth..."

Crowley covers it with his hand. Bloody saliva is dripping from it now as he tries to speak. Fucking great. "Sorry... sorry..."

"No... my dear..." Aziraphale looks into his eyes, relying on his eyes to convey what he feels as it gets tiring to speak and all of his strength is spent on breathing through the pain.

Crowley meets them, still covering his mouth. But Aziraphale's look is sad and gentle and adoring. It slowly pushes Crowley's hand down so that he can caress the tangled white softness of the angel's hair.

"I' sorry..." he whispers anyway, although his treacherous lips refuse to connect for the m and send a stab of pain into his brain instead. He tries to hide the wince.

Aziraphale doesn't notice it, as he's struggling against a wave of pain that threatens to overwhelm him and send him into a daze once more. He closes his eyes firmly, waiting until it abates. Then he looks at Crowley again, his eyes the focus point he can steady himself on. "W-Why… are you sorry?" he whispers.

Crowley takes a shivery breath. "Un h-or s-sixteen," he breathes out between his teeth before he can stop himself.

Aziraphale looks at him in confusion.

Crowley grits his teeth. "I could sto it. Un sigil... And he would leave yu... I so sorry... 'orgive me..." To many words at once. He sputters and coughs as his throat gets dry.

But Aziraphale finally understands. His "oh dear..." is so soft and loving that it feels like a caress on Crowley's soul.

"I just... didn't want it to be from you," he says quietly. "Not from you…" There is an emphasis in his words, a focus penetrating the haze of pain that takes a lot of effort to maintain. He is ready to maintain it however long it takes, though, waiting for the self-loathing to leave Crowley's eyes.

It is not so easy to do. A spark of acceptance struggles to the surface, but it's having a hard time to surpass the memory of Aziraphale delirious with pain, begging Crowley to stop it without even being aware of what he is saying or the fact that he is saying it aloud.

Aziraphale's eyes are encouraging it. They are gentle in their pain, soft in their suffering. Crowley did not cause any of it by his own hand, and they are thankful for it.

Finally the spark reaches Crowley's eyes, replacing the guilt.

"Thank you..." Aziraphale whispers and sees Crowley's eyes filling with tears just before he closes his own and struggles through the tide of pain that he has kept at bay with his will until now. It's a bad one. His body spasms and blood is seeping into Crowley's feathers as it opens his wounds again. His breaths get erratic, each one turning into a half-moan and half-whine somewhere between his throat and lips.

Aziraphale's grip is crushing, but it does not hurt Crowley's hand. He looks at it: his offending hand with the offending thumb preventing the offending bonds from sliding off so he could heal his angel and get them away from here, stop time and teleport them or something... He wants to do a heroic rescue and all he can manage is talking to Aziraphale to distract him from pain, and even that he can't do properly. He feels useless.

"Reheher Vienna?" he asks shakily, when it seems that Aziraphale is able to perceive him.

The angel's eyes are so full of pain when they open that it makes his heart clench forcefully. They are unfocused, but turn in the direction of his voice.

"We had a Sa...Sacher-torte," he struggles with the word, his voice shaking just a little. But Aziraphale listens and his taut features ease just a little bit, so he continues. He continues speaking for hours, the words spilling from his torn lips between coughs, together with spit and blood. He speaks about meals they had together, about concerts they have been to. He speaks about Aziraphale's books and his plants, about breakfasts in bed and late evenings of drunk talks, of kisses…

He knows they are being watched, but he doesn't care. Everything that matters to him is in his arms as his words measure the passing of the merciless time, carrying them closer to another visit from their torturer.

* * *

(illustration by me)


	8. Propaganda

Zadkiel is watching the big flat screen that has rolled out of the ceiling. There are two other angels watching the same one, but in the distance of the vast halls of Heaven, he can see more screens and the angels gathering around them. Sometimes there are four of them, sometimes it’s nobody at a particular screen. There are millions of angels, but Heaven is a big place. There are millions of angels, and each of them knows who is responsible for the failed Apocalypse. There have been whispers recently about a punishment, so it’s not surprising when the screen shows Aziraphale and that demon he has been fraternising with. 

A cut to the Tadfield airport reminds everyone what exactly they are going to be punished for. There is a shot on the rows upon rows of angels, battle ready and waiting for the sound of the trumpets to root out all evil once and for all - and of course there is footage from that, such a historical moment is worth documenting. But then the camera shifts and there are Aziraphale and the demon standing behind the Antichrist, waving and openly defying an Archangel’s authority. Then a shot of the trumpets, stashed away in the storage room together with the polished weapons and stylish uniforms. Clear enough. 

A montage then shows several pictures of the angel and demon together: eating human food(!) in various establishments of different architecture that’s hard to place in time for an angel who has never been to Earth, standing side by side at a duck pond, sitting together in some vehicle... 

Another cut takes the viewer into the room where Aziraphale and Crowley await their punishment, hands held up on the wall by chains connected to narrow silvery bonds. Both the angel and the demon are naked and their wings are bleeding from several cuts. The scene is filmed from above, suggesting a look from Heaven into some lower place. “Miracle-proof bonds,” a helpful subtitle says. The shot cuts from the prisoners to an authoritative figure in a well-fitted suit.

“Principality Aziraphale, angel of the Eastern Gate,” Archangel Gabriel proclaims solemnly. “You are guilty of interfering with the Great Plan and preventing the final battle between Heaven and Hell for the selfish reason of fraternising with the enemy. Do you admit it being your fault?”

A cut to Aziraphale again. "This is not about fault," the angel says quietly. "It is about choice. So, I have chosen.”

Another cut to Gabriel, who is looking at from the screen intently with his head tilted up, as if speaking to the audience of all watching angels, not just Aziraphale. “We do not get to make choices, Aziraphale. Choices are for humans. Our path is given to us and we have to follow it and not stray. And you have strayed far from it. You have let a demon manipulate you to follow his evil plan.”

"No, the plan was mine!" Aziraphale admits defiantly, obviously not wanting the demon to get credit for something that he did himself. "I cajoled him into caring for the world, so that when the end was nigh, he would be on my side! Without me, he would never have wanted to avert it!"

“That is a grave admission, Aziraphale,” Gabriel sighes, obviously pained by how far their brother has strayed. “Even without it, you deserve a punishment. But admitting to this fully and without remorse calls for exceptional severity.” He looks straight into the camera again. “Not that remorse would change anything. Humans are given time to sin and repent between their birth and death. But we are not born and we do not die. For human souls, there is no repentance after death, only punishment. Likewise it is for us, ethereal beings. And that’s why, Aziraphale, Heaven withdraws the protective hand it has been holding over you. You fraternised with demons, and so you will be given to them to deal with you. I suspect you will be punished in the same way that human souls who sin and don’t repent are punished. May it be a warning to all your brothers and sisters.”

Gabriel sighs heavily and snaps his fingers. Aziraphale is dragged into the middle of the room, his wings stretched. Gabriel turns to leave and as he does, a demon enters. 

Zadkiel shivers in disgust. The creature is filthy, dressed in torn clothes that smell of brimstone and dung just by the look of them. Their skin has a sickly yellowish hue and their eyes are pure black, with thin yellow rims. A salamander sits on their head like a grotesque hat. And they're holding a whip with a leather handle and three spiky chains at the end.

Zadkiel winces as it connects with Aziraphale’s naked back. He knows Aziraphale is a traitor who strayed from the true path and deserves a punishment, but it makes him feel uncomfortable to watch it being carried out. He looks at the other two angels watching the same screen. They are impassive, no emotion visible on their faces, and so he doesn’t let anything show either. But inside, it feels wrong. He remembers Aziraphale from the time when he fought in the platoon under his command and something just doesn’t fit.

* * *

_ He had no idea how long the fighting has been going on already. Reckoning of time had not been invented yet. There were no days, no circular patterns of time. Only the clash of swords that replaced the celestial harmonies. _

_ They advanced through the streets slick with golden blood. Michael's white banner was distant and pale, but the light of a flaming sword was close. The banner gave the direction, the sword decided how best to follow it. Zadkiel trusted the one wielding it: there have been injuries, of course, but no losses in their platoon so far. From the look on the other platoons, that was quite rare. _

_ The street was blocked with a barricade, a big group of demons waiting for the advancing angelic forces. _

_ The War had started with a rebellion. Angel against angel, it was then. Now most of them have Fallen, though, and returned on black, disheveled wings to aid their unjust cause. It was much easier to fight now, when it was us against them, Zadkiel thought. But not to Aziraphale. It seemed that it did not matter to their commander that these were not their siblings anymore, but damned creatures of darkness. _

_ Aziraphale gestured to his platoon to wait and approached the barricade alone. _

_ "Uh, hello there," he said. "Can I talk to your leader, please?" _

_ The demons laughed at him. "Come and chat, if you want," they teased, showing off their weapons. _

_ "Oh. I'm sorry, I would prefer to talk across some distance. No? Well, I'll just talk to all of you, if you don't mind. You see, we need to advance the front and your barricade is in our way, I fear. So, there will be fighting if you keep defending it. That will be thoroughly unpleasant for all of us. So could you just move, please? We would be very thankful." _

_ The demons stared at him in disbelief for a while. Then they burst into rough laughter. _

_ Aziraphale's platoon was not surprised. They were already used to this. It never worked, yet their commander never stopped trying. Sometimes, they made jokes among themselves about it - and Aziraphale laughed as well when he heard, taking no offence, just shrugging in a way that felt like saying "That's just silly old me, can't help it." But when someone from another platoon made a joke at his expense, each of the angels under his command was ready to defend him. After all, he was the reason why several of them have not been killed or even worse, on the other side of that barricade, as had happened in many other platoons. _

_ Zadkiel remembered a time when he himself started to question whether Lucifer could be right about some things, some time before the Falling started. He wondered if it wasn’t true that this new world and the humans that were supposed to be created were meant to usurp their place of God's favourite children. _

_ But Aziraphale had joined him once as they marched and started a casual talk with him, excitement written all over his open and expressive face. He knew his name, of course. He knew the name of every angel in his platoon. It seemed that he just wanted to share his joy of this particular part of God's plan and his curiosity about humans. Zadkiel smiled with him and found out that some of that excitement had rubbed off on him. He never questioned God again. _

_ And so now, when Aziraphale came back from the failed negotiations with the demons on the barricade, his expression was sorrowful and the angels from his platoon did not say a word about the futility of the attempt. _

_ "Alright then," he said shakily. "I fear there's no other way. So, take care of yourselves and your comrades and..." he took a deep breath, "...let's attack!" _

_ They did, led by the flaming sword. They fought hard and, at the end, cut through the barricade. The demons fled before them and a trumpet announced the arrival of reinforcements from behind. _

_ Zadkiel was ready to pursue the fleeing demons but Aziraphale stopped. His platoon stopped with him, a bit confused. The reinforcements caught up. _

_ Zadkiel moved closer when he heard a discussion between the two commanders. _

_ "...cowardly! They are getting away while you idle here!" _

_ "I'm truly sorry, but I don't agree. They are already fleeing and we secured this part of the city. We need to strengthen our position here, where it's more defensible." _

_ "We need to pursue the demons now when they are weak, Aziraphale!" _

_ "But it could be a trap, I'm afraid." _

_ "Oh yes, I see that you are afraid," the other commander said dismissively. "Nevermind, we don't have time to argue. Stay here if you want. I'm taking command of your platoon. Soldiers! After me!" _

_ Nobody from Aziraphale's platoon moved when the other unit rushed forth after their commander. _

_ "Oh dear," Aziraphale sighed. "Alright then. Would you help me to repair and man the barricade, please?" _

_ They did without a word. They were just finishing when they heard the clash of weapons ahead. It was a trap. _

_ Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment, looking very tired. Then he opened them. "Let's cover their retreat!" he cried out and rushed forth, the flames of his sword blazing high. _

_ Two angels from the other platoon were killed in the ambush and three were captured, but all who got to him made it to the barricade safely. _

_ Aziraphale was the last to return to the barricade, a deep cut in his leg oozing golden blood. He collapsed there, but Zadkiel caught him as he fell, just like Aziraphale caught him from Falling before. Zadkiel supported him, leading him away from the fight as the healer rushed to them. The barricade defended by two platoons held. _

_ "Goddamned demons," Zadkiel grumbled when he saw how deep the wound was. _

_ "Oh. I'm not sure about that," Aziraphale said, gritting his teeth when the healer lifted his leg. _

_ Zadkiel blinked in confusion. "About what?" _

_ "That God... ouch!... that God damned them forever." _

_ "But they Fell." _

_ "By God's will, yes. Everything She does... She does... agh!... No, don't worry my dear, you're doing a marvelous job, best healer I could ask for... She does for a purpose, I wanted to say. It's all a part of the Ineffable plan. For the sake of humans, maybe... I don't know. But punishing them forever, that's just cruel... and She's not. I know She's not..." _

* * *

Zadkiel remembers that moment vividly now, as he watches Aziraphale being hurt again. By a demon, again. But it was an Archangel who allowed it. For fraternising _ with _ a demon and defying the Great Plan.

He remembers how Aziraphale was reprimanded for cowardice and blamed for the deaths and capture of the angels from the other commander's - Sandalphon's - unit. Sandalphon said it was Aziraphale’s fault for not joining him. Aziraphale didn't say anything and neither did the angels from his platoon, when faced with Archangel Michael.

Now Zadkiel feels the same. He feels he should say something, but he doesn’t. He's used to doing what he is told, being a good angel. He wants to be a good angel, still feeling the dread of how close to Falling he was once. He does not feel good about staying quiet. But he's afraid to speak.

The show ends with the notice about the next episode in 24 Earth hours. The screens shift back into the ceiling and Zadkiel looks around. The faces he sees remain impassive and his own looks the same. But in his mind, an idea is forming.

He summons the insignia of his platoon - a golden flaming sword - and pins it to his jacket. 

As the hours pass, he sees more flaming swords. They avoid looking each other in the eyes, but gravitate together, forming a little group. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt anyone who knows Slovak or Czech is reading this, but if you do, I apologize for the name. I used it as a placeholder and then just grew too fond of Assiel to change it :)


	9. Come back to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the worst chapter of this story (so far?). Please make sure you are prepared to read it.

Satan actually knocks before entering this time. Crowley would consider it a rather distasteful joke if the last hours hadn’t drained him of all emotions. Now he just looks up, hissing menacingly as the door opens after a little pause.

Satan takes in the picture before him and smiles. "Oh, how nice. You look like a proper demon now, at last."

It stings Crowley somewhere deep inside when he realizes that Satan is right. He does look rather disgusting, like a rabid snake, if snakes can get rabies (they can’t). His lower lip is hanging in shreds, dripping saliva mixed with blood and revealing sharp teeth in a snarl. He doesn't stop hissing though, leaning over the angel protectively. 

Aziraphale's eyes are closed. It seems he's asleep or unconscious - or just too tired to open them. 

There is still a little smile in the corners of Satan's lips. "My, my. How touching. What if I told you that you've got the choice now?"

Crowley stops hissing immediately. He looks at Satan in mistrust, loathe to let go of the angel in his arms. 

Satan raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for the answer.

Crowley nods. He carefully lifts Aziraphale so that he can extricate his wings from under the angel and lay him down as comfortably as he can. 

Aziraphale moans and Crowley presses his hand encouragingly. Then he gets up, a perfect picture of a feral demon disturbed from a bloody feast, ready to fight. But he does not fight. "Yesss," he says. "Hurt _ me _ ." He carefully pronounces the _ m _ as well, not willing to give any space for misinterpretation.

Satan chuckles at that like at a good joke. The chains appear and connect to the silvery bonds. They force Crowley's hands up and he doesn't resist. He walks towards the middle of the room as soon as they start pulling in that direction.

It makes him lose his footing when they suddenly yank him back and drag him to the wall. Fear and confusion are written in his face, refusing to admit to himself the other option, the one that Satan…

“I see, so that’s what would have happened if I told you that you have a choice. Pity that you don’t.”

...was lying.

The horror that sinks down into his stomach is like the short moment of weightlessness at the beginning of a fall. He’s frozen in it, unable to move, unable to think. 

He sees Aziraphale opening his eyes, looking around in confusion. There’s no Crowley leaning over him. He takes a sharp breath as his eyes fill with fear. Then the chains start dragging him across the floor, not even lifting him first. The blisters over the burns split and ooze red and yellowish liquid. The gashes weep blood. He cries out weakly and then just moans, his eyes darting around until he finally finds Crowley. Then they close, as if knowing that the demon is there is enough. 

Crowley feels it’s absolutely not enough, but he can’t do anything. He doesn’t struggle, doesn’t speak. There is no point in it. He’s helpless and Aziraphale is so weak already, and in so much pain. 

More chains appear, winding around the angel’s legs and wings and holding them down while the bonds press his hands to the floor. The arms and legs are being pulled wide, as if Aziraphale will be making snow angels in the fallen feathers. His body is shivering, chest heaving erratically. 

As if reading Crowley’s thoughts, Satan turns to him. “What are we going to do now? I’m glad you ask…” he smirks. “We barely scratched the surface before. But now, we are going to go deeper.”

Crowley doesn’t like the implications of “we”. He doesn’t like the word “deeper” either. And he doesn’t like the long thin blade that Satan is holding. He doesn’t like that at all. 

It starts at the palms. The bonds lift them from the ground and the blade pierces them all the way to the hilt. It turns in the wound and then slides out slowly, slick with blood. 

A memory floats in Crowley’s mind.

_ “Ow. That’s got to hurt. What was it he said that got everyone so upset again?” _

_ “Be kind to each other.” _

_ “Yeah. That’ll do it.” _

Again and again the blade penetrates the flesh and moves under the skin. Palms, forearms, shoulders… then feet and legs... 

Crowley can’t take it anymore. He closes his eyes… then opens them again, because it feels cowardly to look away while the one person that he cares about in the whole world and beyond is in agony. 

Pinned like a butterfly, Aziraphale writhes, his wings trembling uselessly. He opens his mouth, but there’s no strength left to scream anymore. He sobs and moans and pleads weakly, not even realizing what he is saying. He’s calling Crowley. He’s calling his Mother. 

“Enough! Enough!” Crowley cries out. “I’ll do anything. Anything…” 

Satan smiles. “Soon, darling. I’ll get to you in a moment. Let me just finish what I started.”

Crowley clenches his fists so hard that his nails should be drawing blood. They don’t. He sobs.

With a satisfied smile, Satan turns back to Aziraphale. He puts away the blade and kneels next to the angel. He runs his finger along the tortured body, as if admiring his handiwork. 

Then he gently takes one forearm into both hands and _ twists _. A sickening snap elicits a scream from Crowley and a shuddering moan from Aziraphale. 

Satan moves to the other hand. 

Crowley finally closes his eyes, unable to watch anymore. But he hears. He hears the snaps and cracks. He hears the moans, getting more and more quiet. 

It’s going on and on. Time flows like clotting blood: sticky at first, then getting harder and harder.

Finally he hears no more sounds of breaking bones. He dares to open his eyes again, but his vision is blurred with tears. As the room comes into focus, he does not look down, as if he can’t bear to see it directly. Instead, he watches the mirror ahead. It looks as if an angel were descending from Heaven to take him away, his body strewn with roses. There is a red sun behind him, its rays running in strange winding paths between the little fluffy clouds. But the angel’s limbs are twisted in unnatural angles and the roses are wounds sluggishly oozing blood that’s pooling under him. 

Flames reflect in the pool of blood and Crowley’s eyes are drawn there like suicidal moths towards the light. A furnace, the same as before, but only one sigil is heating in the fire. He doesn’t need to look more closely to know what that sigil is. 

Satan is watching him. 

Crowley finally looks down and meets the sight in front of him directly. The angel is no longer descending from Heaven. He is an injured little bird that has fallen to the ground, helpless and hurting. He is delirious, his eyes glossy and unseeing. Crowley suspects that only a miracle is preventing him from passing out and escaping the pain. And there are his wings, sprawled on the floor. Torn and burnt, but not broken yet. He can’t bear the thought of them being broken.

“Yes,” he whispers, defeated. “I’ll do it.” 

The next thing he remembers is holding the branding iron. The snake sigil is glowing bright orange. He can feel the heat emitting from it on his hand. 

“Here,” Satan points on Aziraphale’s chest, on the place just over his heart. “Do it.”

_ Oh God… Oh angel… I’m so sorry_…

He does it. 

The pale chest hairs curl and flame even before the sigil touches Aziraphale’s skin. When it does, the angel opens his eyes. 

Crowley wants to let go of the branding iron, throw it away like a scorpion that is stinging the one he loves so deeply. But Satan clasps his hand on the handle and holds it down with an unyielding grip. Smoke is rising from the burnt flesh, but Aziraphale doesn’t make a sound. The look in his eyes is piercing Crowley’s heart. Only when they close does Satan loosen his grip. The sigil falls from Crowley’s limp hand and hisses as it drops into the pool of blood. 

He has no memory of Satan leaving. He finds himself kneeling on the slick floor. Feathers are sticking to his legs as if someone has tried to tar and feather him and gave up halfway. There is no trace of the forge or the branding iron. For a moment he dares to believe it was just a play of his imagination. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. He would never hurt his angel…

But then he sees the charred flesh and skin on Aziraphale’s chest, just over his heart. An angry snake is coiled there posessively, hurting so terribly what he cares most about. That’s him. That’s his mark. 

He screams and falls forwards on his hands, touching his forehead to the ground as if he could hide from Aziraphale. He can’t hide from himself, though.

There’s a quiet moan, barely audible in the echo of his scream. Crowley collects himself immediately. 

“Aziraphale?” he whispers, carefully leaning over the angel. 

No response. The breath hitches through cracked lips, but there’s no sign that Aziraphale heard him. 

Crowley only dares to touch his cheek lightly, afraid of hurting him more with any other touch. “Oh angel… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry… Can you ever forgive me?”

He gets no answer.

“Angel, please…”

But Aziraphale is quiet, his body too damaged to regain consciousness. 

_ Don’t be selfish, _ Crowley reminds himself. _ You don’t want him to wake into that much pain. _ But he still calls Aziraphale’s name, hopes to get a glimpse of his gaze, to see forgiveness in his eyes. But what if it isn’t there? What if they are full of contempt… or even worse, fear of him? He is a demon. A proper demon, not some at heart, just a little bit, good person. That little bit is burnt with the snake sigil over an angel’s heart.

And yet he still calls, still hopes to be heard. He hopes for reassurance that Aziraphale is here, even if Crowley is damned in his eyes.

“Please, angel. Wake up. Please…”

A tremor runs through Aziraphale’s body and Crowley holds his breath, waiting for a flutter of eyelids, for any word from the angel’s lips. 

But instead, Aziraphale’s breath whispers between his lips: a soft exhale.

He does not draw another.

Crowley freezes, listening. There’s no heartbeat.

“No! Angel! No no no no no! Don’t leave! Don’t leave, do you hear me? Come back to me!” 

But Aziraphale is gone. 

Crowley throws his head back and opens his mouth. A dark, terrible thing is trying to push through it but it gets stuck in his constricted throat. His scream of grief is noiseless and terrible, as it spills inwards instead. His mind is crumbling into itself like shelves of burning books. Darkness envelops him. 

In his next memory he’s clutching Azirpahale’s broken body. “God… Oh God… How could you?” he hears his own voice, sobbing. 

And another voice answers, full of damnation. “God is not listening, darling. Come back to me...”

He’s wrestling with Satan, snarling and hissing. His body is trying to change, but the bonds don’t allow it. It doesn’t matter, he feels the change inside. 

He’s lying on the cold floor. He is alone. No blood, no feathers, no body. Just hundreds of reflections are staring at him from the mirrors, accusing him.

“Aziraphale…” he whispers, but the words shatter into thousands of fragments, bouncing between the floor and the ceiling, mocking him and burying themselves under his skin, into his heart. 

There is no answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got here, please let me reassure you that there will be a happy ending. Also, there's hot cocoa with mead given out in the comment section! I surely needed it to write this chapter... (And this story might help as well: [Of Gardens and Apples](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20221666) \- I wrote it exactly for the occassion of being in the worst part of another story as a reader, and needing something fluffy as a compensation)


	10. Observation

The steps on the stairs are quiet. Gabriel looks up from the computer only when the door opens. 

Beelzebub walks in, shuddering with the sight of bottomlessness they are seemingly going to step into, but not stopping. They are holding a pair of silvery bracelets, carefully polished and open. The bracelets fall on Gabriel's desk with a clang that resonates in the whole room.

Gabriel observes them as they jingle for a moment and then go still. He raises his eyebrows wryly. "That's going to be terribly hard to censor, you know? I'm only finishing the second part now, and it's being a nightmare. Can't you make some suggestions to your Boss at least? Look, I made a list, let me…"

"Have you been watching?" Beelzebub asks without the usual arrogance underlying their tone.

"Yes, of course. Hard not to…" Gabriel points to the ground, where in the room beneath a lone disheveled demon is sitting huddled in the corner, the expression in his face vacant. "Can you imagine how hard this is going to be, logistically?"

"But have you been _ watching_?"

"What, like, observing? Don't really have time for that, I've got hours of footage to edit, if you didn't notice. I'll observe more than enough when I'll have to dig out something useful from that one."

"I zzzee. Nevermind." Beelzebub turns to leave.

Gabriel turns back to the screen, but then tilts his head. "Wait. Why do you ask?"

Beelzebub stops, the flies buzzing in annoyance. "No reazzzzon," they snarl.

"You know you can always talk to me." He smiles with those words. But it's a phrase and smile meant to show off his leadership qualities and understanding to his subordinates, not one of genuine interest.

Beelzebub rolls their eyes. "Sod off, Gabe."

"Now, that's the spirit." Gabriel's smile is pleased now, with just an infinitesimally small increase in genuineness.

Beelzebub storms out, a swarm of flies buzzing around them. 

* * *

Heaven is quiet after the second part of the show ends. Having their wings burnt would be a nightmare of every angel, if they slept and were able to have nightmares. The Management was considerate enough to blur the tools and burns, but they still saw it, could imagine how it would feel: the red-hot metal pressed to smoldering feathers. Sixteen times. A not-so-subtle reminder: this is what the demons would do to you, if Heaven let them. It would be foolish to make yourself unworthy of Heaven's protection like Aziraphale did.

"It's been quite a success," Michael will report to Gabriel later. "I think it's really going to keep them in line, should any of them get ideas."

But Michael doesn't notice the little flaming swords that some of the angels are wearing pinned to their jackets and blouses. It's not unusual to wear the military insignia. For many angels, their participation in the War is their most significant achievement, and a certain two beings made sure that it stays so for the foreseeable future.

There are not many of them, either. Certainly not as many as the silver roses, golden arrows and other insignia of the more famous platoons. Very easy to miss. But one of them works in the celestial archives and sneaks out Aziraphale’s reports from the last few decades. They are carefully written in calligraphic script or typed on a typewriter, but most of them have never been read, just filed away into their proper place. 

The flaming swords just want to understand. They have no reason to doubt what they saw with their own eyes. They know that Aziraphale is a traitor who fraternized with a demon and went against the Great Plan. They heard it from his own mouth. But having known Aziraphale, even if thousands of years ago, makes them wonder. Why? The Aziraphale they knew would not do such a thing without a reason.

They don't know what they are looking for as they exchange the reports to read secretly, the image of a branding iron pressed to trembling wings haunting the spaces between the letters. They don’t have enough experience with Earth and humans to find the answers they are looking for. They find something else, though. 

They find Aziraphale’s fascination with humanity. 

It’s in the way he describes the people that he met and influenced or didn’t influence sometimes. It’s in the little miracles that he sometimes got reprimanded for, those that he had no authorisation from Heaven to do and yet performed for the sake of a bullied kid in some back alley or an old lady whose family lived far away and had no time to visit her. 

It takes them a bit longer to see it in the other kind of miracles that he mentions in his reports sometimes, in an apologetic tone. Their purpose is mostly stated as blending in with the humans. A bottle of wine (he does mention the vintage, but none of the angels are familiar with those). Filling two glasses with it. Repairing an old music record so that it sounds exactly like the concert he has been to, when young Mozart played that piece. A honey cake, just like they used to make it in that inn near Prague in 1850. An antique statuette in a miraculously good state. Things that have no real purpose for an angel.

Sometimes the reports are longer and loneliness can be felt behind the carefully crafted words and sentences. He writes about the lady who owns the coffee shop across the street and that her children are doing well now, after the older one had been ill for a while. He writes about a new book of poetry and the way humans can use words to stir and wake emotions. He writes about a theatre play about some historical event that somehow felt more touching than witnessing the event himself (which he did). He writes about many little insignificant things that together create a kaleidoscope of humanity. It is rather hard to understand, but it’s fascinating reading. 

It does not yield anything helpful in understanding his reasons, though. Not that they can grasp at the moment, at least.

* * *

“That couldn’t have been poison,” mantis says to Musdur. “No poison does this to you.”

Reluctantly, Musdur has to agree. They have the feeling that their reputation of the torture expert is slipping between their fingers. 

The last part was a little unnerving to watch. Not because of the angel, though. Satan has been doing solid work with that one. A bit too rushed and messy, but still satisfying to most demons whose taste in torture was not as refined as Musdur’s. 

But watching Crowley felt strange. As if recognizing this, the camera had been focused on the angel most of the time, bringing many close-ups of Satan’s handiwork to the eager audience. But sometimes, it captured Crowley in the background as well. And it was impossible to leave him out of the shot when Satan invited him as a guest star. 

The reaction to that in the crowded hallways of Hell was confused. There were a few cheers from those who didn’t hate Crowley completely and saw him as one of them again. Some were frowning and gnashing their teeth, jealous that Satan would give such an honour to that laughable excuse of a demon who was supposed to be punished right now. And there were some, including Musdur, who were not watching the branding iron connecting with the angel’s chest, but Crowley’s face instead. Those were feeling strangely puzzled and even shaken. It felt like something was wrong on some deep level, but they could not put their finger on the reason why. And so they turned to the expert.

Musdur scratched their chin. “It was his Lordship’s purpose all along, it would seem,” they said, trying to sound confident where they were as puzzled as everybody else. “Let us watch further. I feel I am close to figuring it out.”

Facepaint scoffed, but turned back to the screen. Most of the demons were turned to the screen. It was now unusually quiet in the halls of Hell. Just the normal background sounds of dripping pipes and snarling hellhounds interrupted the silence. And in that silence, Crowley was screaming and sobbing and calling Aziraphale, who had discorporated at some point before that. It was disgusting. Only it was also touching something deep inside them and nobody knew what it was or why it felt so strange. 

Now there is not much to look at. The angel’s body has been taken away and the blood and feathers finally cleaned so that the camera can get a good view of Crowley. He is not doing anything, though. He is just sitting in a corner, embracing himself with wings that are soaked with the angel’s blood. He is staring into the middle of the room, but not looking at anything in particular. 

“No poison,” Musdur agrees with the mantis. “Maybe an illusion or even temptation. This is weird, really. Can't wait for him to be tortured properly and do something predictable, like screaming at the proper times."

Several voices are raised in agreement. Good proper torture, that's what is needed. Not this weirdness, causing them to feel all sorts of strange things inside, like a badly digested meal.

"Duke Musdur!" 

They turn immediately, together with all of the little group gathered around them. 

"Lord Beelzebub?"

Being addressed by the Prince of Hell publically is either very bad or very good. They hope for the second, feeling their reputation rising again.

"Yeah, I'm here about the job."

"Ah. Did you find my demonstration satisfying?"

They did not tell their followers about it, not wanting to look like a fool if nothing came out of it, but twice already, Beelzebub has called them into a room with green walls and had them demonstrate their torture techniques on a dummy. It only irked them that they weren’t allowed to use their own, but were shown the record of Satan's previous session and had to follow the same moves as closely as possible.

"Yes. In fact, you got the job. Congratulationzzz."

Musdur allows themselves a satisfied smile, but they are still bothered by that. "Will I be allowed to get creative or do I have to…"

"Get creative as much as you want. All the way. His Lordship is taking a break and would like someone to give the folks what they have been waiting for." Beelzebub says and Musdur beams with it. Finally a proper torture.

"I'll give them exactly what they are waiting for."

The cheers around them make them feel very good about themselves again. Almost making them forget that weird expression in Crowley's face.


	11. Point of view

The light is too bright. The voices too loud. The light is hurting him, the voices are hurting him, everything is hurting and he is small and naked in an infinite empty space. Someone is yelling at him, but he can't see them through the light and the words are just a jumble of nonsense, random sounds put together like beads of a necklace strung by a three-year-old. By the tone of the voices, there is something he is supposed to do, but he can't figure out what or how.

He is roughly shoved forwards and then he is falling but staying in place at the same time. Then he has eyes to see again and ears to hear and he can feel the sensations on his skin and that makes him remember. Pain. He remembers pain, terrible and unbearable. He wants to get away from it, flee, get away, get away!

"Hold him, dammit!" Gabriel yells.

Sandalphon is struggling with Aziraphale's new corporation, unpredictable and surprisingly strong in its panic.

Finally Sandalphon overpowers it, pressing it down to the ground and holding its hands in a painful lock.

The corporation whimpers pitifully.

Gabriel leans over it. "Hey! Aziraphale? You hear me?"

All that comes out of its mouth are erratic, panicked breaths. Gabriel takes that as "no".

The paperwork connected with discorporation may be a pain in the ass, but it also serves another purpose - probably the original one that got lost among all that bureaucracy. It enables the angelic essence a moment to recollect and deal with its discorporation, especially if it was a violent one. It helps the essence to realize fully that it is free of the old body together with the reason it got discorporated and will be given a new unblemished one. Shove an angelic essence into a new body right after discorporation, and you get a mess. Gabriel did not know this for certain, but he had a strong suspicion. It is proving correct right now.

The corporation ceases its struggles, but Sandalphon keeps his hold firm. It is weeping now, messily and openly.

"Ugh. So embarrassing," Gabriel mutters. "Come on, get a hold of yourself, Aziraphale. No time to spare. Sandalphon, can you make him manifest his wings?"

Someone is still talking to him, demanding. He doesn't know what they want. There is a painful pull in his arms, increasing with every demand. He would like to obey, but doesn't know what they want from him, doesn't know how. He keeps sobbing, having no control over those tears.

"I have no time for this," Gabriel growls. "They can sort it out themselves. Give me his hands."

"Don't you need a key?"

"No, they lock automatically. You only need a key to open them."

The pressure pinning him to the ground is lifted and he is pulled up, hands held in front of him. A cold metal closes around his wrists with two clicks. He registers the familiar weight, the feeling of being cut off from heavenly power, helplessness. He cries out in terror, trying to get them off like a cat that got a bucket stuck on its head, retreating and flailing his hands to no avail - the silvery metal follows their every movement. He shakes with sobs, and suddenly remembering how to use his fingers, he tries to pull those bonds down. He pulls hard enough to skin his wrists, his breath erratic, eyes unfocused.

Gabriel remembers Beelzebub's spell and quickly repeats it on the corporation's hands, in case it wants to do something unpredictable.

But the corporation keeps trying to get rid of the bond and starts crying like a child again.

Gabriel cringes. "Sandalphon, please."

For a little moment, Sandalphon seems unsure what the Archangel wants from him, but takes the lack of instructions as a hint to do what he knows best. He punches the corporation in the stomach. That seems to do the job. It's no longer trying to get rid of the bonds, but curled into itself. Its shoulders are shaking with sobs, but it's not wailing that loudly at least. Gabriel seems to approve.

Then the Archangel rubs his temples with a tired sigh. "Just… get him where he's supposed to be, alright? Take the second hallway and then fourth stairs, they are marked as closed for maintenance. I'll go ahead, can't lose my time here."

* * *

The Archangel is already sitting behind his table, putting pieces of video together, when Sandalphon arrives with his charge. It is subdued and bruised just in a few places.

Gabriel nods approvingly and points to a simple chair in the middle of the room. Sandalphon shoves the corporation into the chair and fastens the ropes around its hands.

"Thank you," Gabriel says. "You may leave now."

He stays alone with the corporation. It seems that Aziraphale has not quite settled into it yet, like a child fussing about getting dressed and doing it purposefully wrong. It should be familiar though - the corporation looks just the same as the previous one. Of course it does, changing the actor's faces mid-series is really bad for a show, after all. But right now it's shivering and staring somewhere behind Gabriel's desk and that unnerves the Archangel. He's not used to being ignored.

"Come on, Aziraphale," he says. "We've got work to do!"

He gets no response, but he stands up anyway and adjusts the camera that's pointing at Aziraphale to get a more centered shot.

The corporation shivers, as if suddenly aware that it is naked. It's trying to cover itself in front of the camera and fails.

Gabriel rolls his eyes, thinking that Aziraphale has indeed been on Earth too long. It's pitiful, really. There's not supposed to be anything sensual or suggestive about being naked for an angel. There's not supposed to be anything shameful about it, either. Clothes are just a fashion statement, mostly following the trend given by the archangels, not a necessity. It's just a poor dress code, to appear in front of others unclothed. But prisoners are not given the option to be fashionable, that should be clear.

After a while, the corporation gives up the futile tries to cover its nakedness. Its eyes dart around the room wildly, taking in the recording equipment, but no comprehension is visible in its face.

And then it looks down.

Everything returns at once. He's there again, trapped between the mirrors, hurting, bleeding, burning. The pain is too much, he's begging for release but it doesn't come. Just more pain. A voice is talking to him through the haze, words strangely slurred but bringing memories of familiar places and past pleasures. Eyes are looking at him: honey being poured into his soul and darkness enveloping it in comfortable familiarity where one can hide from the world. Hide with someone…

"Crowley!"

Gabriel looks up from his computer, but Aziraphale still pays no attention to him. Irritating, really. He's looking down, leaning forwards as far as the bonds let him.

Crowley is his steadying point. Always has been. With Crowley, he can be himself. Aziraphale. Everything is clicking into place, piece by piece. He closes his eyes and tears roll out from under his eyelids.

But he opens them again as soon as he is sure about himself. He is Aziraphale and this is his body. It had been too damaged for his essence to stay within, but this is a new one. It seems slightly battered, but not nearly close to what the old one had been through. A good, solid body. He's actually a bit relieved - he was afraid he would never get one again.

He is here. And there is Crowley, in the room below him. He tries to call, to wave at him, make him look. But Crowley is not looking at him. He's looking terrible, dear boy. His poor lips… And that look in his eyes…

The last piece clicks.

Aziraphale gasps as he remembers. Crowley's eyes: honey and darkness. And fire. He can still feel the coils of a fiery snake above his heart. Crowley hurt him.

He raises his hand to his chest. The skin above his heart is smooth and unblemished in this body. But his heart aches with it, almost too much for the corporation to bear it. He feels himself getting distant from it again and deeper at the same time, retreating into it like a shell.

"For Heaven's sake, Aziraphale!" he hears Gabriel say. "Get a hold of yourself already!"

He grits his teeth and indeed gets a hold of himself, suppressing the memory of a snake sigil burning all the way to his heart, locking it deep inside. But not because Gabriel asked him to. He looks at the Archangel pointedly.

"See, that's better," Gabriel says, looking pleased about not being ignored anymore.

"Fuck you, Gabriel," Aziraphale says clearly and turns his eyes back to Crowley, not gracing the Archangel with any more looks. A little bit of satisfaction that he didn't realize he wanted until he has been living with Crowley for over a year. After that, they joked about it together, sometimes. But it doesn't feel satisfying now. It feels dull. Dull like the look of the demon in the room below. Nothing matters anymore.

A bolt of electricity makes the muscles of his corporation spasm painfully. He draws a shaky breath when it passes, feeling terribly tired. Reminding himself that this corporation is still whole prevents him from panicking again. Remembering the pain he was in before makes Gabriel's attempt at disciplining him almost laughable. It does something else too, though. It reminds him that this new unscathed body can be hurt to the point of breaking again. And again.

He does not grace Gabriel with a look, keeping his eyes on Crowley instead. He can vividly remember a time when he was intimidated by Gabriel, but that is over now. It disgusts him how much he used to care for what Gabriel and the other angels thought of him. Everything he cares for now is in the room just below him, so tantalizingly close… on the other side of the mirror.

One mirror above, one mirror below. He knows their purpose now. The feeling of falling down some infinite elevator shaft is just a creepy side effect. The truth is even more creepy. The thought that Gabriel has been watching all the time, recording even… it makes him sick.

It feels even worse that he's not able to give any sign to Crowley. The demon is sitting there, just a few steps away, thinking that Aziraphale is dead and trapped in Heaven, that he won't be given a new corporation anymore.

That he won't be able to get back to his rose.

He must admit that getting a new body is rather surprising and quite concerning, actually. But Crowley's dejected posture pushes all worries for himself to the side. Crowley is clearly grieving for him, poor dear. It feels sickening, having a memory of Crowley's hand hurting him burnt into his mind. But even more sickening is the thought of something breaking in Crowley when he was forced to do that.

"You regret turning against your superiors now, don't you, Aziraphale?" Gabriel asks, interrupting his thoughts.

Aziraphale does not deem that worth an answer or a look.

Gabriel watches him with a frown, static electricity crackling in the air around him. Then he sits down though, and reaches into his pocket for a transparent smartphone.

He taps the screen twice and puts it to his ear.

"All ready here," he says after a moment.

"Yes," he replies to something that the person on the other end of the line said. "It took a while, but it sorted itself out when I stepped in. Yes. More or less, I dare to say."

He listens for a moment, then rolls his eyes and puts away the phone.

He gives one more disgusted look to Aziraphale and then gets back to work.

For Aziraphale, it is all just background noise. Everything that's important to him is in the room below. When the door opens there, his heart stops. Unlike Gabriel, Satan scares him. He can hurt Crowley. But it is not Satan who enters.

He forces his corporation to take care of its own vital functions and watches a demon entering the room. They have a salamander on their head and do not look friendly at all. They watch Crowley like a vulture circling a dead body. And from all interest he shows, Crowley could very well be one.

"Oh dear…" Aziraphale whispers when he sees the demon chaining Crowley in the middle of the room. He's not resisting at all. Crowley has never been much of a fighter, but the demon doesn't look much like one, either. Crowley would have a chance against him. But it seems that he has just given up.

Even the salamander demon looks a bit uncomfortable about this, but then they look somewhere to the floor and grin. That's where the camera recording for Below must be, Aziraphale thinks. He doesn't care for how he looks in front of all the watching angels - not anymore. But the thought of thousands of demons watching his Crowley like this makes his blood boil.

Salamander gains his confidence from it, though. They produce two very sharp needles, each about a foot long.

Aziraphale sees how Crowley's body jerks when the first needle pierces his skin. An automatic reaction. His look remains vacant, uninterested in what's going on with his body.

The salamander demon shows no emotion, either. They are calm and collected, watching Crowley's reactions with an almost clinical interest, adjusting the position of the needle based on them. Then the other needle joins the first, just millimeters apart. Crowley shudders as they move under his skin. In and out, piercing the most sensitive spots of his body, and moving…

Aziraphale clenches his teeth when he sees the violent shudders running through Crowley's body when they are moving. They must be running along the nerves, pressing them to elicit this response. But then he looks at Crowley's eyes and wishes he had stuck to watching the needles.

Crowley looks broken. And he looks thankful for the pain.

_Oh my dear, does it hurt so much?_ Aziraphale thinks mournfully. _Did I hurt you so much that you would prefer the physical pain as a distraction from the one I caused to your soul?_

Gabriel looks up from his work when he hears a little whimper. Aziraphale is leaning forward in the chair, his lower lip quivering. Gabriel allows himself a moment to watch Aziraphale embarrassing himself in front of the camera again. Yes, this will be a nice shot.

After a long time, the needles are put away, replaced by some sophisticated metal tools, applied with careful precision. Satan's methods look crude compared to that. There is blood this time. Quite a lot of it. But no screams. Crowley is trembling, his body covered in cold sweat. He is in terrible pain - Aziraphale can tell, knows how it feels. But Crowley is resigned, as if he welcomes it, as if he feels he deserves it.

Aziraphale sobs, because he knows it's him who deserves it, not Crowley. His own selfishness, his own desire to play the hero. He hoped he could spare Crowley from being hurt. He hoped he could spare himself from having to watch him being hurt. He achieved nothing, absolutely nothing. He just made it all about himself. Crowely was so kind to him, soothing his pain, telling him stories to distract him from it after Satan left them alone. And all that Aziraphale achieved was that Crowley was being hurt anyway, and there was nobody to soothe and distract him now. He achieved that his demon believed Aziraphale discorporated, separated from him forever.

He achieved that Crowley found watching his pain so unbearable that he took the deal to hurt him with his own hand to end it. And it broke him. Aziraphale feels guilty about that too. He should have hidden his pain better. He should have been stronger.

"_You are making me worried by being worried for me. It's an infinite spiral, you see?" _Crowley told him before. Yes, he thinks. But not just of worry. An infinite spiral of guilt, and he sees no way out of it. He didn't want to watch Crowley being hurt, and now he has to watch him hurting so terribly, inside and outside, and he can't do anything.

Gabriel watches with interest as Aziraphale rocks back and forth, looking like he's on the verge of another panic attack. He doesn't slip into the state he was in just after his essence was thrown into a new corporation, though. Tears are rolling down his cheeks, but he doesn't cry in that loud and messy way that human children do. (Gabriel saw that once, when announcing the birth of Jesus.)

"Aziraphale," he tries his luck for getting some useful footage. "Tell me, what do you think of yourself as an angel?"

"A failure," Azirapahel sobs, unthinking, not even realizing who is asking. The words just spill from his lips. "Pathetic failure. Terrible, terrible angel. Worth nothing…"

"I think so, too," Gabriel smiles.


	12. Confrontation

Musdur can taste the frustration at the back of their throat. They know that the whole of Hell is watching them right now and it doesn't feel like showing off their skills in front of the other demons anymore. It rather feels like an embarrassing failure in front of all of them.

They are not doubting their expertise for a moment. They can read the tiniest reactions of a body and they know their methods to be effective. They have spent millennia perfecting them.

It started with those three angels, back in the War. Their methods had been amateurish back then, trial and error. There was no shame in that, everyone was an amateur. But they knew they found their passion and pursued it since then.

They fancied themselves a scholar and an artist. They have spent centuries dissecting bodies - sometimes even dead ones - to figure out how they perceive pain and find the most effective ways to cause it. They designed and created their own tools and they made careful trials to see how to improve them. They even spent some time on Earth, learning from the most inventive humans. They had gone a long way in their art since those three angels. But still they remembered them fondly, treasuring the memory of their every scream and moan.

This was supposed to be the crowning moment of their career. Of all demons, they thought that Crowley would be the one to really appreciate their craft. He invented the Spanish Inquisition, after all.

So far, it hasn't gone as they had imagined it at all. There are some limitations posed by the situation, but they barely restrict the possibilities. The hands, for example. A lot of sensitive nerve endings, especially under the nails, but apparently there is an invulnerability spell on them. It's good that Lord Beelzebub informed them, it could have been even more embarrassing otherwise. With humans, genitals are also a good place to exploit at a later stage, but neither Crowley nor the angel had been making the effort at the time of their capture. Despite the limitations, Musdur knows that the mistake is not in them. It must be in Crowley.

His body is responding just how it should. All the indications are there. There is no problem in the perception of pain, nor is there a problem in the transmission of the signal. It is the final stage of the response where something goes wrong. It's like the signal is getting lost in some other kind of pain, already flooding his mind. But there is no obvious reason for it. Musdur had examined every part of the body he was supposed to work with carefully while they were working with the needles. The only obvious injury is the torn lips, and that is no explanation for the phenomenon.

Sometimes it even seems as if Crowley welcomes the pain. Musdur is aware of that possibility and has a few tricks ready for such a case. None of them work on Crowley.

Musdur takes a break to reevaluate their options. They can see that Crowley's body can't take much more of this, as if missing the will to survive that's usually present in every living creature. They could have made sure that it lasted much longer, if they didn't have to make compromises for the sake of the audience. But some of their most painful techniques are very hard to follow for an observer and so they had to combine them with some more showy ones.

They can see that the body is on the verge of its possibilities, but Crowley won't break. Not in the way that all the demons are waiting for. Not in the way the angel was, begging for the pain to stop. Musdur loves that moment, loves to inflict pain beyond it. But Crowley is already broken and had been long before Musdur touched him. It's a different kind of broken than Musdur is familiar with, though: no begging, no interest in what's happening to him. They thought they could override that with some proper tools, but apparently it doesn't work.

"What the heaven did He do to you?" they mutter in frustration.

Crowley doesn't respond.

Musdur takes a deep breath, watching their own handiwork thoughtfully. They know when to admit defeat.

Beelzebub's orders are to go all the way. Musdur had the finale planned out to please the audience, knowing that at that point it would be more about the show than technique and subtlety. Dismemberment is an all-time favourite. Never disappoints.

But they can sense that it would disappoint this time. Any of their efforts would disappoint and they would still look like a fool for trying. They look down, where they know the camera is, and slowly shake their head. Giving up from their own will, sparing themselves the final blame - they hope so, at least.

They only take one tool into their hand - their favourite needle. One quick, precise stab at the base of the skull and it is done - like flipping an on/off switch.

The corporation is empty of demonic essence before Crowley could even register what had happened.

Musdur looks at it thoughtfully for a moment and then turns to leave.

Half-way, they stop and look up. They have a strange feeling as if they heard something, but the room is completely silent. They only see their own reflection, multiplied by the mirrors. It is not a sound but a feeling that they sense. If feels like a desperate, bone-chilling scream. They shake it off and walk out of the room.

* * *

Musdur is not eager to return to Hell. They consider taking the staircase down into the recording room and giving a report to Lord Beelzebub, but what would they say? Beelzebub has seen everything anyway, and so did all of Hell. There is also a staircase leading up, but Musdur does not question its presence. One does best when not questioning this building's architecture. And so they continue down the poorly lit hallway, past the door leading to the strange green room where they'd auditioned for the role. Now they wish someone else had been given it.

They push open the double doors that the hallway ends with and enter the vestibule of the building. Their footsteps echo on the polished floor as they approach the escalator Downstairs. They are already sinking into the floor to take the ride when a movement at the top of the other side of the escalator catches their eye.

An angel!

The vestibule is neutral ground, so Musdur does not do anything. They just slow down a little, trying to catch a glimpse of the angel without staring too openly. They allow themselves to get a bit lost in fantasy - how wonderful it would be to get their hands on an angel again and elicit some proper response, after the frustrating job down the hall.

The angel is suddenly too close. He descends upon Musdur like a bird of prey, readiness to smite in his eyes.

"Whoa, watch out!" the demon cries out, surprised. "Neutral ground here!"

The angel narrowly misses Musdur as they throw themselves forward and hide below the polished floor. Another neat trick of the architecture - angels always walk on it and demons always sink as they approach the escalator. Musdur couldn't get to Heaven this way and the angel can't get to them either.

The angel hits his fist on the floor and a bit of holy light escapes like a spark from a badly insulated dynamo. "You torture angels, fiend!"

"Oh?" Musdur remains lying, but raises their head with interest. The directions have changed for them, so they are lying on their belly and watching the angel hanging upside down under the floor. His head is shaved and the white line along his ears and jaw suggests he's just a simple angel of the lowest rank. Musdur is a Duke and could take him out anytime, if the angel hadn't surprised them on neutral ground. But now they are not surprised anymore. They play with the idea of taking the angel Downstairs and having a go at him. Nobody could say anything about that, it was the angel who attacked first. Maybe they will do that later. But now, they can't resist.

"Yes, I do," they say proudly. "Am I known in Heaven, angel?"

The angel hits the floor once more. It sparks, but remains firm, unyielding under his fist. He shakes his hand - the hit had to hurt.

"Careful there," Musdur grins. "Don't hurt yourself. Leave that to me… And tell me how you know about me."

"You… you tortured Aziraphale!"

"Whom?" Musdur's thoughts go first to the names of the three angels that made them recognize their passion for torture before they catch up. "Ah, that one. I fear I can't take credit for that," he says, wondering how the angel got that idea.

"Do not lie! I saw you!"

Musdur frowns, puzzled. They observe the angel for a while: wings out, righteous fury and everything. Then they strike, quickly. They jump up and as they appear from the floor, they knock the angel down and press a long, thin needle to their throat. "You know what it is, don't you?" they hiss.

"Uh… no?" the angel blinks in surprise, struggling and still coming to terms with the sudden change in the situation.

"Ugh! You just said you saw me torturing Aziraphale. I have no idea how you mistook a demon for an angel but don't tell me you didn't see this. It's my signature tool, for hell's sake!"

"I-I didn't? And I _know _Aziraphale. I wouldn't mistake him for a demon." The angel tries to twist out of the demon's grasp, but suddenly the needle is piercing his cheek and doing something very, very painful. He screams.

"Trigeminal nerve. Glad that still works," Musdur mutters. "Still no recognition?"

The angel breathes deeply as the needle is removed. He doesn't try to escape anymore. "What… What am I supposed… to recognize?"

Musdur narrows their eyes. "What's your name, fledgeling?"

The angel gulps. "Zadkiel."

"And what are you doing here, Zadkiel? Have you been waiting for me?"

"I just wanted to get a glimpse… of the Earth. And then I saw you and I… I recognized you."

"How did you recognize me?"

Zadkiel doesn't reply and Musdur presses the needle to his cheek again. No other prompting is needed.

"It's being broadcast all over Heaven. Gabriel withdrew Heaven's protection from Aziraphale as a punishment for what he did, and then you tortured him."

Musdur raises their eyebrows. "All over Heaven? Me? Tell me…" they say carefully, with a rising suspicion. "What tool was I using to torture him? Needles? Or a whip?"

"A whip, of course. And branding irons. And a blade… although, your face wasn't in the part with the blade, just hands."

"I see. Well, Zadkiel, it seems that we have been both played for fools. Name's Musdur, by the way. I am known for torturing angels, but that was a long time ago. Promise me you won't try anything and I'll release you. We need to talk."

Zadkiel looks mistrustful, but also cautiously curious. His face is so open to read as he is thinking that Musdur finds it laughable. Apparently an angel who has never dealt with humans or demons after the War.

Zadkiel finally nods and Musdur releases their hold but doesn't relax, still ready to strike.

Zadkiel presses the barely visible puncture in his cheek, cringing. "That _hurt_."

"Thank you. Now let's go somewhere more private, you never know who's listening here."

"I'm not going with you to a place that's not neutral ground, demon."

"Neutral ground? You didn't seem bothered by it before, asshole. And weren't you trying to sneak out to get a glimpse of the Earth? I haven't been there for a few centuries myself, I wonder what the humans are up to now."

Zadkiel suddenly looks unsure, but tempted. "Well… if you are telling the truth that you have not tortured Aziraphale, I really want to know what's going on."

_You really want to see the Earth_, Musdur thinks, seeing that in the angel's face clearly. "Where did you get the body?" they ask with a hint of amusement.

Zadkiel blushes. "I… uh… borrowed it from a friend. He wasn't using it."

_Adorable_, Musdur thinks. The day is turning out much better than it started. Maybe it would even end with torturing an angel.

* * *

It turns out that humans have gotten a lot done since 15th century Spain. Zadkiel actually proves more useful in navigating 21st century London, in the way of a tourist who has read a guide and already built a mental image of how the place should look, insisting on it even if it clashes with reality.

Looking for a private place to talk, they ended on the sofa in an expensive fashion boutique, since there were almost no customers inside. Zadkiel tried to order wine, but wasn't met with understanding; instead someone kept offering them clothes (that were nowhere close to what the archangels wore) to try on until Musdur made the insistent person forget about them. Zadkiel was a bit disappointed because he secretly hoped to be persuaded to try on that green dress.

And then Musdur nearly sets the sofa on fire when he learns about his role in Heaven's new blockbuster.

"No, you don't get it!" they snarl when Zadkiel tries to calm them down and miracle the soot out of the sofa. "I don't care about your stupid propaganda! But now the whole Heaven thinks my methods are as crude as Satan's! I am a professional, bless it!" He gives the angel a measured look. "I could demonstrate, if you want…"

"Uh… no, thank you, I believe you," Zadkiel says quickly. "Wait a minute, Satan's? It was actually Satan hurting Aziraphale?"

"Yes and I would very much appreciate if you told that to all of your angelic buddies."

Zadkiel's look gets distant. The inner fight is visible in his face, unused to hiding anything. "So Heaven… they really have been lying to us?" he asks shakily, but doesn't aim the question at Musdur or anyone in particular.

"Most probably. Hey, you listening to me? I said that you should tell your buddies that it wasn't me there. And that if someone would be interested in my real craft, I'd be happy to demonstrate."

Zadkiel blinks and finally looks at them. "I… may try? Not sure if it changes anything, though," he says, still a bit shaken. "There are… a few of us that would like to better understand Aziraphale's reasons for betraying Heaven. I could tell them, I guess. I should. I really should..."

"Can't help you there with the reason. I would actually really like to know what Satan did to Crowley to break him like this. I've never seen that in a demon before. Hm…" they give Zadkiel a thoughtful look. "You say you are being fed some abridged and edited bullshit? What if you got to see the real thing? Could you maybe tell what both of us want to know from it?"

"Possibly? I can't tell before I see it, but it's quite likely, given that the archangels _do not_ want us to see."

"Even if you would have to go to Hell to see it?"

Zadkiel pales and lightly touches the insignia of a flaming sword that he is wearing on his collar. "Even so."

"I like that spirit," Musdur grins. "And how about a bit of torture on top of the deal?"

"Go fuck yourself."

"Fair enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you see the second angel in the row as Aziraphale's platoon is waiting for him? (The bald one.) That's Zadkiel :)  



	13. The snake's choice

Discorporated demons return into the same pit of boiling sulphur that welcomed them into their new demonic life for the first time. It is actually very pretty, if one doesn't mind the smell. If Hell sold postcards, this would be on them: a vast pool of bubbling yellow, the fumes burning in a blue flame and the nearby river of magma giving the scene a warm reddish hue. Flames flicker and cast glossy highlights and dancing shadows on the walls of black volcanic rock. Red dances with blue, sometimes coming together and giving the light a purple tint.

Satan is waiting in the shadows near that pool. The flames paint the contours of His imposing silhouette, enshrouded in darkness. He is wearing His true form, a great muscular figure with torn leathery wings and a crown of horns. He doesn't move, almost like a giant gargoyle on the roof of some blasphemous cathedral.

A snake slithers from the sulphurous fumes and looks around, disoriented.

Satan gives it time to collect its bearings, lurking in the shadows. Time passes without anything to measure it. A burst of flame in the magma illuminates Him and the snake notices. It recoils.

"Hello, Crowley. I've been waiting for you," Satan says.

The snake erects himself, all instincts telling him to fight or flee, but without a clear consensus on which one. He doesn't do either. After a moment, he just coils into himself tiredly again and lays his head on the curve of his body. "What more do you want?"

Satan comes closer. "I want _you_, dear."

The snake hisses menacingly. "You don't get to call me dear."

"I call you as I wish, Crowley. Or should I say Crawly? You are mine."

The snake curls more tightly, but doesn't answer.

"I would be willing to declare your punishment for that mess you created served, you know? I got the chance to vent my anger quite nicely. I want you back in service. But proper service this time, no going around and falling in love with angels. I will make sure of that personally."

Crowley laughs mirthlessly. "You think I would jussst fall in love with any angel?"

"It doesn't matter. You won't."

"What if I don't want to ssserve you?" Crowley asks with courage born from the fact that he really has nothing to lose now. Absolutely nothing. "You're just as shitty an employer as you are a father, you know. Conssstant bullying in the workplace, no benefits… How did you get the idea that I might want to work for you?"

Satan smirks. "And how did you get the idea that you get to decide about it?"

Crowley shrugs, which is quite a feat in snake form.

"You don't think I know what you are capable of, if you just put enough effort into it? The M25? The mobile phone network? The high heels and the whole beauty industry? All the low grade evil, thousands of souls tarnished every day with a minimum effort? I wonder what would happen if you put your best effort into it, don't you?"

"Nah, not really," Crowley says dejectedly.

He overstepped. Satan rises, His wings unfurling in the flickering light. "I gave you an honour!" He cries, His voice echoing in the hollow underground space. "You think I wouldn't pick my best to deliver my own son? You think I would just let you go after you messed up?"

The snake uncoils slowly and starts slithering back towards the boiling pool.

"Where! Are! You! Going? I'm not finished talking to you!"

"But I am," Crowley hisses and slips into the lake of sulphur.

Satan reaches after him like a fishing heron and when He takes out His hand, He's clutching a writhing snake, trying the slip away between His fingers. But Satan's grip is firm and Crowley soon exhausts himself. He goes limp, not resisting anymore. When the grip is loosened a bit, he looks at Satan tiredly. "You wanted to say...?"

Satan growls dangerously. "I wanted to say that you are going to work for me. You've spent too much time with the humans, getting ideas about choices and free will. That's for them, not for you. You will bind your will to mine, like Gollmar did."

He waits for the question, but Crowley ignores the bait.

"Gollmar became my whip, if you are curious," Satan supplies the answer anyway. "I would leave you a bit more autonomy, but you're just a tool, Crawly. Not an individual. You've always been a tool, nothing more."

"I know how this worksss. You can't force me into such a bond against my will. Which kinda provesss that I do have free will, don't you think?" Crowley hisses sarcastically, poison dripping from his fangs onto Satan's hand.

Satan casually licks the drops, smiling darkly. "You think you do? You do have a choice, but the will behind it? That will is mine, Crawly. Not yours. You can choose to bind yourself to me… or I will torture the angel again. And again. I can do it as many times as it takes."

The mention of Aziraphale is an electric shock resuscitating his stilled heart. Crowley looks up, a flicker of pain coming through the dullness of his eyes. "You won't," he says hoarsely. "He is in Heaven. They won't give him a new body, but he is safe from you, at least. You will not touch him again."

"Oh darling," Satan smiled. "Do you really believe that? Do you think my dear Beelzebub doesn't have a pact with Gabriel to hand over the angel when I ask? As many times as I ask?"

"I don't believe you," Crowley says. "You've lied to me too many timesss. I don't believe you anymore."

"I may be lying, true. So you would rather leave him with Gabriel up there? I've heard Sandalphon was very much looking forward to his return."

Crowley remains quiet for a while, the words sinking in and awaking memories. Of words, of looks, of promises.

"If I accept, I won't remember him, will I?" he whispers.

"Oh no. You won't. Better for him, really. I doubt he will want to see you again, after what you did. I may even be merciful and let him return to Earth… and _not_ send you against him."

Crowley watches Satan for a long moment and a faint, mirthless smile spreads through his mind, even if not shown on his snake lips.

For all His mind games, Satan doesn't understand. Not really. He thinks He does, He is toying with them in the game of 'how would Crowley feel if I do this to Aziraphale and vice versa'. That level of understanding feelings is honestly impressive for any creature of Hell, but it is very poor for understanding what's between Aziraphale and Crowley, the thing that took 6000 years to develop and three years to be expressed openly.

They have more than a simple understanding of each other's feelings. They are two mirrors, placed on opposite sides of the room, one facing up and the other down, away from their original sides but towards each other. Every emotion is reflected between them infinitely: worry, grief, suffering… love. Satan is just a child who learned to count with numbers, trying to understand the complex algebra of infinity.

"Is this ssstill about me?" Crowley asks, using Satan's own game against Him. "Or are you trying to prove yourself that you can at least win back a disobedient demon when you failed with your own ssson? To be honest, I am quite sure he will not want to see you, after how you treated him."

Satan squeezes His fist, slowly crushing the snake in His hold.

"You… don't want me…" Crowley wheezes. "You want Adam… You… You …"

The pressure lessens. "What makes you think I wouldn't want both?"

Crowley takes a deep breath. "Your incompetence, for a ssstart."

The tightening of Satan's hold was absolutely expected.

"It's true! Nobody... tellssss you… Everyone's afraid…"

Satan leans closer and loosens his hold enough for Crowley to be able to talk. "What does nobody tell me?"

"That it's your fault... the failure, I mean... as much as oursss. You've got a perfectly passsssable human form. You could have delivered him yourself. You could have actually been there for him when he was growing up."

Satan growls, but Crowley just goes on.

"Even now, you say you want him back, but really just expect him to come to you. A tool, not an individual. Do you know sssomething about him at all? What'sss his favourite colour? Who'sss his favourite superhero? If you really want him to acknowledge you, you should try sssspending ssome time with him. Take him to a circus or sssomething…"

"ENOUGH!" Satan's voice booms all over the cavernous space and shakes the walls.

Crowley does shut up, getting the clue. He hopes he succeeded in his attempt to turn Satan's attention away from his angel. Who knows, maybe spending some time with Adam would actually be useful for getting some sense into the old devil.

"My question was not about Adam," Satan growls. So much for the hope.

"I thought you loved the angel," He continues mockingly. "I thought you wanted him to be safe. I thought you were willing to make a sacrifice for him. But you are a coward. You've always been one."

_You fool_, Crowley sighs inwardly. _This is the card you have been waiting to play after all of that elaborate set-up? Self-sacrifice?_

_You believe that you can make me sacrifice myself for a promise that you can break anytime? You think that I'm going to accept a deal that would hurt him much more than you can? If I sacrifice myself, it will be him who will suffer more._

_Oh my, can you even imagine how he would feel when he found out about that? He would hurt so much. He would think it was his fault and eat himself with guilt. I know how that feels, you made me feel it quite strongly, thank you very much. I got a taste of the guilt and the torture and trust me, the guilt is worse. We are beyond that point where I could sacrifice for him and he wouldn't be bothered by it. Like, 5 980 years beyond that point. Duh, if he sacrificed for me, I would just have to find some holy water, I guess, and he knows it. He would have more sense than to do something so dumb. You are a fool, really. You think that I would believe that he is going to be happy without me just because you made me hurt him?_

But a shadow of doubt rears its ugly head in his mind. Maybe it has something in common with Satan's presence. _You did hurt him, though,_ it says. _You hurt him even when you promised him not to, and it was the last thing he saw before he died. Does he still love you, after what you did? After what you are just going to do?_

It's Aziraphale who has the answer to that. He always has an answer for Crowley's doubts.

"_You know which snake I'm talking about. The poisonous one, that helped the Little Prince to shed his body. So he could return to his rose."_

_"No, please. I... I couldn't..."_

_"Good. That's good, my dear. No matter how tempted you might be, please don't ever do that. Because my rose is here..."_

He has a choice. He does, no matter what Satan claims. He can either reunite the Little Prince with his rose and cause him more pain with it, or destroy the rose and let him be unhappy forever.

Aziraphale will forgive him. He always does. Two mirrors, facing each other. They may be hurt and worried, they may feel guilt, but as long as there is even a bit of love between them, it is reflected infinitely. He believes in Aziraphale's love.

That doesn't make it easier, though. Aziraphale would pick suffering instead of parting, but it is one thing to promise it and another to actually do it and cause it to him. It's making it so much harder, because Crowley knows that Satan will make him hurt Aziraphale, again and again.

But now he is looking into the mirror in his soul that reflects Aziraphale and looking at himself through those gentle eyes, he does not see a coward. He sees the true courage of his decision. It takes courage to sacrifice for the one you love. But it takes even more courage to respect that your love dreads such sacrifice more than pain and would rather be hurt than allow it. Hurt, but not parted. Two mirrors can only reflect infinite love when they are together.

"No," he says to Satan. "I refussse your deal."


	14. A look into the mirror

Crowley has been given a new body. Just like that, without any paperwork. Satan has been smirking all the time, as if looking forward to another round of this, and then maybe one more and one more, until He gets what He wants. It seemed that He actually could be patient, if He put his mind to it.

As soon as he was in the body, Satan made him manifest his wings and then clicked the manacles into place. Beelzebub was right there, renewing the invulnerability spell on his hands. Crowely did not resist.

They took the elevator from the deepest pits and the escalator into the building in London where the entrance to both Hell and Heaven was. It all looked so normal. The hallway that he was sure wasn't there before looked exceptionally normal. A shitty blue carpet, grey plywood doors, white paint on the walls. A generic hallway in a generic office building full of rented offices of strange firms that almost nobody has heard of.

They stop at the door at the very end of the hall. It also looks perfectly normal, but Crowley's heart skips a beat as Satan pushes the handle.

The narrow view that he sees through the opening door reveals a room with mirrors. There's nothing normal about this room. It is a place from nightmares. Crowley stares at it with unseeing eyes.

That's the moment when his courage gives up. These mirrors are harsh, unforgiving. Not like the reflection of himself in Aziraphale's eyes that he imagined. In these mirrors, he is a coward.

He wants to flee, but is frozen on the spot. Satan pushes him inside like a rag doll.

He turns right back, desperate to get out, to not be here, please anywhere else but not here... but the door closes immediately. There are no ominous sounds, just a little click and then there is no door visible from the inside, only a smooth wall.

He stares at his own reflection in the mirror below. He knows this feeling. It starts with a sinking sensation in his stomach, a cold dread spreading from it like an earthquake around its epicenter. He's choking on a memory. It is wedged in his throat, not allowing him to breathe properly. A drop of cold sweat is running down his back. It feels like the touch of a white feather, torn and bloody. He shivers with it. And then he shivers again and can't stop. His heart beats rapidly. The urge to curl into a tight ball and scream rises in his chest.

He knows this feeling. It comes with the images of roaring flames, the smell of burning paper. But now, it's not fire. It's an image of endlessly claustrophobic space between two mirrors. It's an image of blood and burns and his hand holding the branding iron and Aziraphale's last breath escaping between his lips and it's real because he is here, between those mirrors, memory and reality overlapping, mirroring each other, burning, burning...

"Crowley..."

The voice. Angelic voice.

It takes a while to penetrate the memory, but once it does, it tears him out of it. Its gentleness is out of place there. Instead, it takes him into another one.

The Bastille. A panopticon of contrasts. An angel looking so strangely out of place between those dark walls of rough stone. Fine aristocratic clothes and heavy iron chains on his hands. And the name of a demon on the angel's lips. His name, said with such a relief, such tenderness that it made his heart ache. It should be impossible, but somehow, those two syllables manage to fit even more tenderness inside them now, even more relief.

His heart still feels like it's trying to break free from his chest. He takes a shuddering breath. That's good, he can breathe again.

He turns towards Aziraphale's voice like a compass turning to the North. He's been so trapped in the memory of Aziraphale dying that his mind did not register the angel being there, real and alive.

There he is, huddled in the far corner. He's been pressing his naked back into the wall in a futile attempt to get as far as possible from the room while being inside it. But now he is looking up, reddened eyes filled with tears.

Crowley sobs. "Aziraphale."

There are four syllables in that name. He puts love and sorrow into each of them.

He makes a step forward, but then stops awkwardly, like a robotic toy that ran out of battery.

Aziraphale also raises from his crouched position, but his back stays pressed to the wall. He is trembling, his eyes fixed on Crowley like a deer watching the headlights.

Crowley feels two opposite forces, tearing him apart. A terrible longing to be with Aziraphale, to touch him and hold him firmly is pulling him forward. But guilt is holding him back. And Aziraphale is not moving. The angel is not moving and Satan's voice is still fresh in Crowley's memory.

_"I doubt he will want to see you again, after what you did."_

A memory of a snake sigil is burning behind his eyelids, reflected infinitely between the mirrors. Before he knows it, his breath is catching in his throat again and his knees are going weak, like there would be jelly in their place.

He manages to make a single step before they give up. The smell of burning flesh fills his nostrils.

A single step is enough. Aziraphale moves at the same time, like a reflection in the mirror. His legs are trembling, but he steadies himself and crosses the distance that separates them. He falls to his knees in front of Crowley, locking his gaze on those unfocused snake eyes.

"My dear…" he whispers. "I'm so sorry…"

Crowley is brought back by that voice to find his angel so close to him… leaning over him… Aziraphale's fingers almost touching his cheek… That little distance speaks about Aziraphale's own guilt and uncertainty, left for him to overcome, if he chooses so. A mirror of his guilt. But does he know what Crowley did?

Crowley pulls back a little, his heart aching with the expression in Aziraphale's face. "What are _you _sorry for?" he asks in a broken whisper.

Slowly, Aziraphale withdraws his hand and clenches it over his heart, looking forlorn. "I… I made you watch as he hurt me… and you had to watch as I discorporated… and then you have been all alone, hurting so much… I left you there. I left you, Crowley…"

"Nothing of that was your fault," Crowley says hoarsely, his voice colored with passion that wasn't there a moment ago as he is desperate to show Aziraphale the reflection of him in Crowley's eyes. "It was Satan's plan, all along. There never was any choice. You think you convinced him to hurt you first, but he was decided long before he asked that question."

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, open and vulnerable, not believing yet.

"Then why… why won't you touch me?" His voice is trembling.

"I hurt you, angel. And… And that's not even the worst thing I did."

Aziraphale closes his eyes and tears roll out. "It's my fault. You hurt me because you couldn't bear looking at my pain. I should have been stronger, more enduring…"

"You… are joking, right? You must be. Would you ask that from me? If I would be the one being hurt, would you ask me to not show pain to spare your feelings?"

"That's different…"

"It fucking isn't."

Aziraphale smiles faintly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Do you know why I didn't want you to hurt me?" he asks quietly.

"Seems obvious…" Crowley mutters.

"I thought it was. But maybe not so much. Oh my dear, I did not ask for myself. Never would have. I knew that if you had to hurt me, it would break you. And it did, didn't it?"

Crowley looks up slowly. The answer is visible in his teary eyes.

"Oh dear…" Aziraphale breathes out. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that…" His hand, clenched above his heart, unfurls like a rose bud and reaches for Crowley's cheek with soft fingers.

Crowley leans into the touch, desperate for it, although he still can't believe he deserves it. "_You_ are sorry? Angel… Angel, it's not over…" he says with all the sorrow in his heart. "I… uh… look, I did something terrible just now. I'll understand if you… will not want to touch me anymore, after you find out…"

As a response to that, the touch gets stronger. Aziraphale's hand cups his cheek and the other one joins, caressing him. "I don't think so."

Crowley savours the touch for a moment, as if it indeed should be the last one. "He offered me a deal…" he whispers brokenly. "To bind myself to him, and he would never touch you again. I would be a mindless tool to him, but you would be safe. And I... I refused."

The caresses stop. The touch does not withdraw, though. It trembles a little and then the fingers clench in Crowley's hair, firm and desperate. They pull him closer, as if in fear of losing him. He can feel Aziraphale's breath on his cheek, he can sense the soft locks tickling his ear.

"Thank you… Thank you…" Aziraphale whispers into his ear, fear of that possibility mixed with relief that it didn't happen.

Crowley is too surprised to respond at first. Then his body takes over and leans into the embrace, forgetting about everything else for a short moment. But soon his thoughts catch up. He withdraws a bit, even if it feels like tearing a barbed arrow from a wound.

Aziraphale looks fearful again, worrying that he overstepped.

"It's okay… it's okay…" Crowley murmurs reassuringly. "Well, apparently nothing else is okay, but this is, really. A lot of okayness, in you touching me. More than I deserve," he sighs. "I need you to understand… fully… what I did. Angel, He will come again. And He will hurt you again. Over and over. Until I accept."

Aziraphale's breath hitches. Crowley can feel the tremble in the angel's body. He can sense it - the heart beating too fast under his fingers, the throat constricting, the dark pressure on the chest…

He draws Aziraphale closer, steadying him. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, I'm sorry! I should have accepted! He was right, I'm a coward. I'm so sorry, Aziraphale!"

Aziraphale is still trembling, but slowly his breathing evens. "N-No… No… You are so brave… so brave to do that. I am the coward, fearing a bit of pain…"

"A bit? Aziraphale, that's not a bit. Anyone would fear that… And I put you into it…"

"It's just a body. Shouldn't matter that much..." Aziraphale whispers through a constricted throat, the words competing with a sob. They win, but the sob comes right after.

Crowley holds him firmly as more sobs follow.

After a while, the sobs abate and Aziraphale's heart slows down a little. He takes a calming breath. "I understand what you did," he whispers. "Fully. And I understand how much it cost you. Thank you."

"But the cost to you…"

"Is much lower than it would have been if you accepted," Aziraphale says firmly. "I apologize for my weakness. It's... hard to control."

"Oh angel. You are so much stronger than you believe. You're trying to protect me from my guilt even now. But I will hurt you again, too," Crowley whispers like a confession into the space between them. "I'm sorry… He would hurt you much more, if I don't. He… He goes for the wings, when I refuse…"

Aziraphale's lips curve in a little mirthless smile, and only now Crowley realizes - the angel's wings are tucked away, hidden safely in the ethereal plane. There's no taking them out, not with the manacles on.

Crowley remembers his own wings and envelops Aziraphale in them, warm and dark. "It may be something else still," he says sadly. "I know you don't want me to do it, but I may not be strong enough to resist, if he offers it…"

Aziraphale shivers. "It will break you."

"But so will watching your pain and knowing I could have stopped it," Crowley breaths out, the words quiet in the cocoon of his wings, protected from unwelcome listeners. "And the pain… the pain will break _you_. He knows what He is doing."

Aziraphale is quiet for a while. "It… might," he admits finally, the words falling heavily into Crowley's lap.

Crowley caresses his hair.

"So it seems," Aziraphale sighs after a while, "that we are destined to be broken, no matter what you choose. I am glad that you chose how you did, because there is one difference between the two options, still."

"What is it?" Crowley asks, because he knows Aziraphale wants him to.

"We can either be broken alone if you accept the deal… or together. And I would rather choose together. Always."

Crowley sighs and gradually relaxes into Aziraphale's embrace. For some time, they are quiet again.

"Why did he leave us alone like this?" Aziraphale murmurs then, a thought that has obviously been worrying him for a while. "Seems a bit counterproductive, if He knows what He is doing…"

Crowey smirks faintly against Aziraphale's shoulder, not bothering to raise his head. It's safer for those words to stay in the safety inside his wings. "He knows how to hurt and manipulate and limit one's choices. But He doesn't understand. He thought that you wouldn't want to see me again. He thought you will be mad at me for not accepting His offer. He wanted to give us time to turn against each other, probably. Didn't work that well, eh?" There is still a hint of pain in those words, as if he finds it hard to believe too, after all that he saw and did and all the poisonous words that Satan dripped into his ears.

"No, it didn't," Aziraphale smiles and leans his head against Crowley's, the memories fading in the reality of it.

Another moment of silence.

"If it gets too much, though…" Crowley's guilt raises its head again and speaks through his lips, "If you tell me that you can't bear it anymore… I can still accept the deal."

Aziraphale withdraws to look into the demon's eyes. "No!" he says sharply, with a horrified expression. "Please don't. I beg you."

Crowley looks at him in surprise. "But if…"

"No. No if. Because if I ask you that… don't you see? It would be my decision in the same way as it was yours to hurt me. Something forced on me by the unbearable circumstances. Something I would regret as soon as I was lucid enough. I am lucid now and I want to use that state fully. I apologize, my dear… I apologize for the pain I'm going to cause you by not allowing you to do it."

Crowley looks into his eyes, shaded by black wings, seeing his own reflection in them. He gulps. "No more apologies. Nothing to forgive between the two of us, right? It may be easier to accept, if you don't feel guilty for it."

"And you? Can you stop feeling the guilt?"

"I may start to convince myself, if I talk for a while longer."

"Then do, please," Aziraphale whispers. "I don't want you to feel guilty, either."

"Right. Fair enough. You know, I realized this thing about us while talking to Him. We are like mirrors, reflecting everything between us infinitely, and yes, it's a terrible metaphor given the circumstances, I know."

Aziraphale smiles faintly. "Absolutely terrible."

His tone reminds Crowley of their usual bickering, of the short time when they could be at peace together. It is more encouraging than any reassurance. "Yes, so my point is... when you are hurt, of course I feel it too. That's how mirrors work. But there's no need to add guilt to the pain. It's not your fault. Nothing is your fault if you are only given terrible choices. And that's the point. It's His game. He's playing us against each other, but we need to play against Him. No guilt. Right?"

"Right. Have you convinced yourself yet?" Aziraphale asks when Crowley gets quiet.

Crowley makes a thoughtful expression. "Almost. You?"

"Almost. I see the mirror allegory might be rather accurate, if the similar state of conviction is any indication."

Crowley snickers. It's so easy to pretend they are somewhere else as they are hiding in his wings and Aziraphale is talking like this, as if discussing some point from a new adaptation of Shakespeare. Aziraphale is doing it on purpose, the wonderful angelic bastard.

"I love you," Crowley blurts out.

Aziraphale goes still. He watches Crowley and the depth of love in his eyes seems infinite. And there's also understanding now. "I love you too… you know that. Of course you know that, my dear… I can see that in you and you can see that in me… like in a mirror. You are right about that."

Crowley closes his eyes. He would so like to lose himself in the moment, maybe the last one they have together. But he can't. Not with another thought still bothering him. "But if you are lucid… and ask me to accept the deal…"

Aziraphale sighs and leans closer, his lips brushing Crowley's. "That would mean I have given up all hope," he whispers and then closes the distance to a kiss, hiding the words between their lips from anyone who might be listening. "As long as we are together, there is hope. There might come a chance to get free. Maybe in months. Maybe years… centuries… but once, it might come. You told me, remember?"

Crowley sobs and deepens the kiss, drinking the hope from the angel's lips. He knows what will follow soon. But they are here now, together, and the pain is still in the future. He wants to forget it just for a while, to savour what he has now. Aziraphale wants it too. He can feel it in the quickening of his breath, in the shiver of the soft body under his touch.

But Aziraphale withdraws after a moment. "They are watching us," he whispers hoarsely. "Behind the mirrors. Gabriel is recording on cameras."

"Yes?" Crowey's eyes get that usual warm glow again, the flicker of defiance. "And do you care?"

Aziraphale considers the question for a moment. "Actually… Fuck them."

Crowley grins at both the word and the idea, so unthinkable to hear from the angel's lips just a few years ago. His influence is showing, it seems. "That'ssss my angel."

Still, he keeps them covered in his wings even if their position and movements give away a lot. Especially when he lays Aziraphale down on them and starts kissing every inch of his body. The body that he saw covered in blood, hurt and burnt and broken. It's a new one, he knows, but it feels the same. Aziraphale is the same inside it. The skin is soft and smooth now, but he knows it will be marred with wounds soon enough. Some of them by his own hand, maybe. But before that, just for a while, he can cover it with kisses instead. He can replace the memory and expectation of pain with pleasure, with gentleness. He needs to do it, needs it for his own sake as much as for Aziraphale's.

He kisses and caresses and is kissed and caressed in turn. There may be all of Hell and Heaven watching them. There may be a memory of pain in the past and a promise of it in the near future. But they have stolen the here and now for themselves.

* * *

The door of one of Hell's conference rooms that should be unused right now is locked from the inside. There is someone who's not supposed to be there.

The room looks like a public school classroom after a particularly rough day. A group of demons is seated in various places and positions in it. The one with black and white face paint is sitting backwards on a chair that looks like an ergonomic nightmare. An axolotl is lurking under a desk and a mantis is sitting on the ceiling. A salamander is slouching cross-legged on a table. And an angel is standing stiffly in front of an ancient TV, hands close to his body as if he is trying hard to not touch anything - or trying to hide their trembling. Possibly both.

While there was a pause in the show being broadcast in Hell (just Aziraphale sitting in a corner, not doing anything interesting), they got the TV to work somehow, and made it show the archive footage. The angel has been watching it. The demons have been watching the angel.

With a lot of skipping, they got to the end just as someone in the hall cried that the show is starting again and Crowley is back. Salamander changed the channel to the current transmission.

The demons are watching the TV now, confused but intrigued. They don't pay that much attention to the angel in their midst anymore. He could flee if he wanted. But he doesn't. He's crying.

Salamander turns their attention to him. "You understand, don't you?"

The angel nods.

"Can you explain?"

It takes a moment for the angel to collect himself, but the demon waits patiently. Finally, he nods. "I hope so. It might be hard to explain to you. If I manage to do that, I get the footage as we agreed, right?"

"Yes. You have my word."

"A word of a demon can't be trusted."

"Hmm… Should I get a human and make him give his word instead?"

"No, for Heaven's sake, no. Alright then, we've got an agreement. I'm not sure if I can make it understandable enough for you, though."

"Do your best, then."

And Zadkiel does.


	15. Coffee break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the reprieve. Now take a deep breath because we are right in the "it gets worse before it gets better" tag.

Crowley is asleep. His shoulder-long hair is tousled, its wavy strands running like snakes over the black feathers and between pale fingers. His chest rises and falls regularly, his breath warm against the shoulder of an angel.

Aziraphale is watching him, idly playing with the rusty red hair. He would like to think that Crowley's worries are lifted from his sleepy face, that he is resting peacefully in his arms. He would be lying to himself, though. Most of the tension is gone, true, but there are still traces of it lingering in Crowley's features: in the little frown line between his eyebrows, in the tightness around the corners of his mouth. He is resting though, and that has to be enough right now. Aziraphale lets a strand of hair slip between his fingers and smooths a feather, marveling at the closeness.

His own demons are put to rest for the moment - both literally and figuratively. When he closes his eyes, he doesn't see the branding iron, burning like a snake bite under his skin. He doesn't see Crowley's eyes in that hellish glow, doesn't see how his soul is shattering behind them. He can imagine a lingering gentle touch instead, fresh in his memory. He can imagine Crowley's eyes as he is leaning in for a kiss… no, he would rather imagine the kiss instead, the taste of his lips. In his eyes, there is still something broken, like a faint cobweb of cracks fanning across a mirror. He knows that his own eyes are the same and that Crowley knows. They are stripped bare to very soul in front of each other. There is pain and love and grief and love and sorrow and love and love and love.

Crowley sighs in sleep and Aziraphale presses a gentle kiss to his temple.

Then the door opens and the moment shatters.

Aziraphale doesn't hear what Satan is saying. The sight of that face is enough to throw him into a memory of pain that feels so real that he's digging his fingers into Crowley's shoulder without realizing it. He hears his own heartbeat, drowning all other sounds. He feels cold creeping up his hands and legs, spreading over his stomach and reaching towards the heart. He feels like dying.

Crowley wakes with a start and Satan's presence sinks into his reality right away, like a stone crashing his brief respite. He sits up, putting himself in front of Aziraphale before he can think about it. _Mine_, the snake in him hisses. _Mine, don't touch_.

But like another stone sinking in honey is the gradual realization that his claim has no power here. That Satan can do whatever He wants and Crowley is helpless to protect his angel.

Satan watches his face, waiting for that knowledge to sink in completely.

"Your decision," He says then, His voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Your fault."

Crowley still remembers Aziraphale's words, his reassurance about this very decision. "No. Yours," he snarls.

Satan makes a step towards him and Crowley lowers his eyes immediately, submissive without a conscious decision. Only subsequently does his mind supply a reason, before he can start accusing himself of cowardice. He remembers the claws piercing his lips. He wants to be able to talk to Aziraphale… afterwards. That easy acceptance of what's going to happen is making him sick anyway, no accusations of cowardice on top of that are needed.

He can feel Aziraphale's fingers, digging into his shoulder. He looks back at the angel and is met with eyes widened in fear, with an unseeing look full of terror. His resolve about his choice is being tried even before Satan lays a finger on the angel.

He turns fully, ignoring Satan, and reaches for Aziraphale's hand, seeking to reassure even when there is no true reassurance to be given. _I am here,_ is the only one that he has. _I am here, powerless to protect you in any way, doubting myself constantly, but still here._

Before their hands can touch though, the chains connect to the manacles and drag him to the wall. He hates that position. Hates it from the bottom of his soul. Aziraphale is pulled there too, like when Satan came to them for the first time. It feels like ages ago.

Satan regards them for a while and he seems pleased with what he sees. "Decisions, decisions…" he mutters. "Free will, right? I wonder if you two might actually have it. It does feel like something you could catch through the prolonged contact with humans. Like a contagious disease, yes? On the other hand, it also feels like you are just reflecting my will. Let's try it. Which of you two should I hurt now?"

"Me," Crowley says softly, without hope that he will be listened to.

Aziraphale is trembling. He says nothing.

Satan comes closer to the angel, smiling. "Yes? What is your opinion about that? Do you think I should hurt him?"

Aziraphale knows it doesn't matter what he says. Or does it? Satan's voice has a great power in suggestiveness. It makes him think it maybe does matter. The decision is his. Just one his word would send Crowley into terrible pain. He knows exactly how terrible. And that's why he can't bring himself to say it.

He is so tired, so afraid of being hurt again that it's making him sick. It's making him sick to think of Crowley being hurt like that, too. But at least Crowley wouldn't have to watch… wouldn't have to be alone for it like he was before. They could take turns, maybe, if they are given the question every time with a new corporation. No guilt between us, Crowley said. But he can't bring himself to say it. He's a guardian. What would he be if he didn't have that?

That broken, empty expression in Crowley's eyes, though... Crowley wouldn't have to watch Aziraphale being hurt, if he discorporates first. He wouldn't have to hurt Aziraphale, wouldn't have to watch him die. Aziraphale has no power to guard Crowley's body from harm here. He can only try to guard his soul.

Crowley watches the inner fight, reflecting on the angel's face. _Me, angel_, he thinks fervently. _Tell him to hurt me_… And then he gets unsure, too. It's like a punch in the stomach as it sinks in: it's not a choice about one or the other. It's a choice about whose turn it will be first. But the other one's turn will come too, and he will be alone then. The noble thing to do here is actually the counterintuitive one.

"I'm waiting for the answer," Satan says with a veiled menace. "I will only ask once more. Which of you two should I hurt now?"

"Him," both of them say brokenly, at the same time.

They look at each other. Feelings reflect like between two mirrors: Understanding. Sorrow. Love. Sorrow and love. Regret. Love. Love. Love.

Satan looks amused. "Ah well…" he shrugs, "alright then. Why not both?"

Aziraphale looks like he might faint when he is dragged into the middle of the room.

Crowley knows that Satan wouldn't allow any of them to faint while He is playing His games with them. He feels like crying.

They are positioned so that they face away from each other, Satan standing between them. That's even worse, somehow. They will know what the other feels because they will feel it themselves. They will feel the pain but not the reassurance of the shared look, of each other's presence. Crowley's hate for Satan is rising with each moment, even though he thought it was limitless before.

"And where are your wings, angel?" Satan asks suddenly, a cold threat in his voice.

Crowley can hear Aziraphale's breath, fast and shallow like that of a rabbit surrounded by wolves, unable to resist. "I… I can bring them forth… if you release me for just a moment…"

_Angel, no…_

"No. Not yet. There is plenty to do without them, for now."

Crowley clenches his fists. Then a sharp pain steals his breath before he can register the crack of the whip. The next crack, he does register. It is even worse: it does not hit him. He hears a muted sob and his pain turns to pure rage.

The whip is like a furious animal, viciously tearing his back with fiery claws and poison-dripping fangs. Aziraphale's whimpers are doing the same to his heart.

Faintly, he remembers being tortured before, with a clinical precision and subtle tools. Not like this, though. He is present now. Before, it felt like it was happening to someone else, like the body did not belong to him. Now the body is his. Just a little time ago, it felt the warmth and smoothness of an angel's skin against its own. Now it can only feel the blood running down its back and along its thighs and the pain that's tearing through its nerves - probably short-circuiting something, Crowley thinks as he listens to the screams that his body is making without him ever deciding to do such thing.

His mind or soul or essence or whatever demons have, that's another matter. His body screams in the moments when the whip falls on his back. His mind screams in the moments when it doesn't. He can't see Aziraphale. He can only listen. It goes like this, in a repeating cycle:

The crack of the whip.

A scream of a demon. A sob of an angel.

The whip cracks again.

The angel screams. The demon makes no sound, but his heart is shattering with the sound of a thousand glass shards exploding in roaring flames that only he can hear.

Over and over.

His throat is hoarse from screaming. The angel's sobs are getting quieter too, mere whimpers that Crowley barely hears through the wild beating of his heart. He doesn't understand how it is still beating, when it's broken into so many fragments that they are just sharp dust that floats all over his soul and rubs it raw.

And the whip keeps falling.

Crowley's back feels like there's no skin left on it. It's bloody and raw and every hit just deepens and aggravates and multiplies the pain. Every hit feeds a thought that sits in his mind like a bucket of lead. _This is how Aziraphale feels_.

Then it stops.

Without a warning, the chains are not supporting him anymore and he falls, hitting his knees hard on the glass floor. It's slick with blood. A moment of confusion. Is it over? He struggles up, propping himself on his shaking hands. Every move sends a stab of pain from his back, but he needs to see the angel, needs to hold him, comfort him…

Despite the protests from his back, he turns around. Despite the horror of his mind dreading what he will see, he looks.

He freezes at the sight.

The angel has not been released from the bonds. He is still hanging in them, his bloody back turned to Crowley now. Thin red streams are running down his legs and pooling on the floor.

And Satan is there, holding the whip and looking at Crowley with a cruel smile. "You know the drill, don't you?"

Crowley closes his eyes; hurt, tired, defeated.

"Tell me," he whispers hoarsely, swallowing his own pain. "State your conditions clearly. I won't do anything based on an assumption."

Satan shakes His head in amusement. "One can't be ambiguous when making a deal with the devil, right?"

Crowley doesn't answer, looking at Aziraphale.

"Listen, then," Satan says. "I will indulge you and state the deal clearly. Five more lashes for the angel from you or fifty from me. Your choice."

"I accept," Crowley whispers in a flat voice, drained of all emotion.

Satan steps closer and offers him the whip, handle first.

Crowley's pale, slender fingers close around it. Angel bone, the rumours say. A chain of ever-burning fire. Hellhound teeth. And inside, a demon called Gollmar, once an individual but now a mere tool. A device meant to hurt everything it hits. The power to cause terrible pain, held in Crowley's hand. The hand that just became so repulsive to him. The hand that's going to hurt an angel.

He gets up. His legs feel as useless in the process as if he were still in snake form - they barely support him. For a split second, there is just the strain of the movement. Then his back flares with pain. He grits his teeth and struggles to walk without staggering towards his terrible goal.

_Five for fifty._

It is worth it, he tells himself. Aziraphale will understand.

_Five for fifty._

He's trying to be calm and detached. He won't be able to do this otherwise. As he walks, he watches the angel's bleeding back, but has to push the sympathy to the back of his mind. He focuses on the deep gashes, searching, calculating. He's trying to find the best way to place the five lashes with as little pain and damage as possible. He's not very successful in that search and he's already standing at the proper distance.

The handle of the whip is slick in his sweating palm. His mouth is dry.

"Wait," Satan says suddenly and snaps his fingers.

Aziraphale is turned around. He moans with the movement. He is facing Crowley now, but has yet to register him.

Then he does.

Crowley feels the blue eyes piercing him as they seek reassurance where there is none to give. He sees the moment of dawning horror when the angel registers the whip in his hand. He sees concern in them, and it's directed at himself. Most of it, at least. Aziraphale is concerned for Crowley, for what it will cost him to wield that whip. And he is right, the bastard.

Crowley doesn't dare to speak, to ask for forgiveness. His resolve might shatter with that. Five for fifty, he reminds himself. A deal with the devil. He looks at Satan instead.

"Five hits," said devil repeats in a sweet voice, as if taking pleasure in specifying the conditions now that Crowley asked. "And put all your strength into it. I know it's not too impressive, but I'll also know if you pretend to be even more pathetic that you are. The deal's off then."

Crowley gulps. He regards the angel's body in front of him, wonders if it's better or worse that he doesn't have to hit the already torn back but the yet unblemished skin facing him now. It is pale and has a faint glossy shine from cold sweat. He's thinking about skin and flesh and bones to prevent himself from thinking about the essence inside, about pain and guilt and love. He grits his teeth and raises the whip. Five for fifty.

His hand feels like it doesn't belong to him. He forces it to move. He forces it to swing with all the strength he can muster. A weak cry escapes his lips as his back screams in protest. The pain makes it more bearable somehow - it feels right that it hurts him, too.

He aims at Aziraphale's legs, hoping to limit the damage he has to cause. He still feels sick when the whip hits. It coils around the angel's calves like an angry snake, sinking its fangs into flesh. He can see the skin tearing under the hellhound teeth, the flames licking it hungrily, the fresh blood welling from the gashes. He can see how Aziraphale's body jerks, can see how a cry of pain forms at the back of his throat and is swallowed, as if trying to spare Crowley the consequences of his actions.

_Don't,_ he thinks. _Don't do this for me. I don't deserve it._

They were talking about guilt before, he remembers. He can't remember what it was that they said.

The whip goes slack in his hand.

One.

Crowley is shaking.

Aziraphale looks up, meeting his eyes. His look is compassionate. Crowley can't hold it for more than a few heartbeats.

_Five for fifty._

He steels himself and swings the whip again. A three-headed snake, hissing as it springs to attack. He can't control it with precision. One of the heads hits the gash from the previous stroke and aggravates it.

A scream is swallowed. Blue eyes are watching, so sad and kind. This time Crowley holds their look for a while, blinking away tears.

Two.

"Higher."

Crowley's eyes are torn away from Aziraphale's by Satan's command. He sways a little, feeling dizzy. Like against his will, he raises his hand and aims higher.

The whip wraps around Aziraphale's thighs with the sound of a well-aimed slap. There is a little hiss, a sharp intake of air between the teeth. Aziraphale is biting his lips. He is the first to avert his eyes.

Three.

"Higher."

Crowley tries to wipe the drops of sweat that are stinging in his eyes. Or maybe tears. Something salty, anyway. He only smears it with his hand and it feels like blood. There is blood on his hands. But when he looks, they are clean, just a bit sweaty. He shivers.

"Go on," Satan prompts him.

Five for fifty. He can't stop now.

He closes his eyes when the whip connects with the angel's soft belly. He still hears it. He still feels it in the moment when they are connected by the whip. Crowley's hand on one side, Aziraphale's pain on the other.

Aziraphale looks at him again, just for a short moment. He is crying.

Four.

"Higher."

He knows.

He takes a deep breath. He knows what Satan wants. He can see the angel's chest, unmarred now. In his mind, he can see the snake sigil burnt just above Aziraphale's heart. Satan wants him to hurt the angel in the same place again.

He grits his teeth and steadies his hand. Just one more hit. Just one more. One more. Just one.

The whip cracks and hisses in the air. It's aimed at the right shoulder. Two heads hit there, leaving deep gashes that are weeping blood.

Crowley watches the third one, helpless as it turns in the air and strays from the intended path.

It connects with the angel's cheek and splits his lip.

Aziraphale cries out in pain.

Five.

The whip falls from Crowley's hand. He watches Aziraphale's eyes. There are tears in them. And they remain turned away from him.

Crowley falls to his knees. He feels drained, used like a snuffed end of a cigarette in an ashtray. _Go away_, he thinks. _Go away already. I fulfilled your deal, so leave now. There are wounds to be kissed, forgiveness to be asked for. Go to Hell and leave us alone._

But Satan seems to have no intention of leaving yet. He circles the angel hanging in the chains, an evaluating expression in His face.

Aziraphale trembles under His look.

"Good job," Satan says at last. "I'm glad you decided to work for me here."

"I didn't…"

"We deserve a break now, I believe."

Crowley shuts up before Satan can change His mind. _Yes, we do. Now go away..._

A snap of Satan's fingers and Crowley is dressed in a dark suit, similar to what the Lord of Hell Himself is wearing, but obviously from a much cheaper fabric. It has two slits on the back, fitting the base of his dark wings.

Crowley gasps in surprise and pain as the synthetic shirt sticks to his tortured back. His look is confused, terrified.

"No! I'm not…"

"So do you want to say that the deal we made is invalid? That you didn't agree to do what I told you?" He raises the whip that Crowley let fall.

"No, no, I did it!" Crowley stammers in panic. "I did it! Five for fifty!"

"That's right. Five for fifty," Satan smiles and lowers the whip again. "So you did work for me here. And you will work for me further, if you want to keep such a good exchange rate. You will obey me in everything I ask from you here. Or the rate goes down."

Crowley folds his hands in front of his chest and digs his nails into the sleeves of the suit as if he wanted to tear it. He doesn't, though. He sobs quietly.

"You said there are no work benefits for my employees," Satan continues as if not seeing that. "That's not true." He snaps His fingers and a little table with two modern chairs appears behind Crowley. There is a kettle with porcelain cups and a selection of biscuits.

"Coffee break," Satan announces.

Crowley looks at the table and then at Aziraphale, hanging there naked and bleeding. He feels like in some surreal nightmare.

Satan sits down nonchalantly and pours coffee for himself. "Come on," he says. "Sit down."

His voice is calm, but Crowley feels the unspoken menace in it. _You will obey me in everything I ask from you. Or the rate goes down._

He feels like the lowest maggot as he obeys and folds his wings over the back-rest of the chair. It's pressing into his back painfully. He feels blood seeping through the suit.

"Come on, get some coffee. There's still much to do."

Crowley's hands are shaking as he is reaching for the cup. He spills some coffee on the table. Satan doesn't seem to notice.

He sips the dark liquid, hoping it to be bitter and scalding, just like he deserves.

Instead, it's the best coffee he has ever had. Rich and creamy, with just the right amount of bitterness and perfect temperature.

He feels sick.


	16. A shattered mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this chapter might require some mental preparation to read.

Musdur understands now. They wish they didn't. It's a bit too much to take in at once. Makes one question things. Makes one unsure about themselves. They look at Zadkiel as if it was the angel's fault.

The angel looks so out of place in Hell with his white clothes and vulnerable expression.

A tape screeches in the video recorder and Musdur presses the _stop_ button. They take out the full VHS tape and put another in. Then they press the red _record_ button.

"It will be a miracle if any device in Heaven can play that," Zadkiel murmurs.

"Not my problem, egg."

"Why would you call me egg?"

Musdur rolls their eyes. "You're too naive to be a fledgeling."

"Also your head looks like an egg," mantis adds helpfully.

Zadkiel reaches for the tape, but Musdur withdraws it and holds it at their arm's reach, away from the angel. "Do you want it, egghead?" they ask.

Zadkiel looks confused. "Of course I do. We made a deal, didn't we?"

Musdur doesn't reply, momentarily distracted by the screen. It seems Crowley is having trouble keeping the coffee down. It should be funny. Only it isn't. It makes them sick, too, because they understand now.

Zadkiel follows their look. He watches both the screen and the demon.

"What are you going to do?" he asks quietly, but with insistence in his voice. As if saying that now, when they understand, they are obliged to do something.

Musdur doesn't like that tone. They turn towards the angel sharply and press the tape into his hands.

Zadkiel almost drops it, not expecting the move.

But Musdur's hands are free now. And just a second later, something long and sharp glistens in one of them. "Hold him," they hiss.

The mantis has been waiting for that. She is taking the angel's hands before Musdur finishes the sentence. The others are slower to follow, but join her quickly. The tape falls from Zadkiel's grip, but Musdur catches it with their free hand. They put it down on an empty chair.

"It's yours," they whisper. "But nobody said anything about a free passage from Hell. I wonder if you will scream and alert everyone down here about your presence or if you will keep this between us. Let's find out, shall we?"

* * *

Aziraphale is thinking about hot drinks. Crowley liked coffee, poor dear. When they went out for a meal, it was often the only thing he actually finished without sliding it to Aziraphale. But now he can't imagine him liking it any longer. It's quite probable that just the thought of coffee will make him sick. So Aziraphale is thinking of alternatives.

There's always tea, of course. But besides Pu Erh, Crowley has never ordered or made tea for himself. So, Pu Erh is one option. Then there is that drink from orchid tubers that used to be considered an aphrodisiac, a fact that Crowley might find funny. The Romans called it satyrion and nowadays it's known as salep, by its turkish name. It is not an aphrodisiac, of course, that was just the phase when humans thought that God coded the use of each plant into its looks, and the two round tubers of this one look like… well. It actually tastes rather nice and he remembers seeing it on the menu of a tearoom in London, so they are still making it.

But Aziraphale feels Pu Erh and salep are just weak substitutes. Coffee is passion and mystery, a dark bitterness that very few appreciate without adjusting it to their taste. Crowley likes to brag about drinking it without adding anything, but Aziraphale knows he puts one spoon of sugar in it if he can do it secretly, and that's how he prepares it for Crowley as well. Strong and dark with one spoon of sugar, because Crowley is like coffee, and secretly a romantic.

And Satan is stripping him of that, making him feel disgust for himself.

They don't have much time, Aziraphale thinks, and his pain underlines the urgency of the thought. How long until Crowley breaks completely? All he wanted was to spare Aziraphale the pain, but the cost to himself was too much. It could be seen in his eyes.

And then there is the thing that made Aziraphale look away from them. It's hiding in his mind like a wild beast in its den. It makes him _fear _Crowley. It makes him fear _Crowley_, and there is no reasoning with it. It's primitive and bestial and does not understand words, does not understand that Crowley is doing it for Aziraphale's sake. It connects pain with fear. If Crowley tried to touch him now, it would make him flinch. He's afraid of that. He's afraid that Crowley will see it, he's afraid it will be the last blow that finally shatters him.

They don't have much time. The pain is clouding his mind where he needs to be alert. And so he's thinking about hot drinks. He's trying to hold on to the hope that someday, they will go to a tearoom again and drink salep together.

He feels it slipping away from his grasp as Satan announces the end of the coffee break and then looks at him like a scientist studying a lab rat.

The coffee he somehow managed to swallow feels like tar in Crowley's stomach. Like betrayal. He did what Satan asked of him, and Satan was supposed to leave. He was supposed to give them a reprieve, a little time for themselves. But he never said he would leave, did he? Crowley just assumed. He said he wouldn't do anything based on an assumption, and yet he assumed. And now he's sitting here in a cheap black suit like a used car salesman, like someone working with Satan while he's going to torture his angel.

And he won't do anything. That's the worst part. He is not restrained, but he will just sit here like the useless shit he is, because he knows that he can't do anything that would help in any way. If he speaks, he will be silenced. If he tries to stop Satan, he will just bring more pain to Aziraphale. And so he sits, because that's what Satan told him to do and he has gotten no other instructions since then. He sits and watches.

"You might think I'm being unoriginal," Satan proclaims, "but I'm quite proud of the idea, so I'm going to use it again, with improved aesthetics. It's so nicely symbolic."

Crowley's heart sinks into the tar pit of coffee.

Satan raises his hands dramatically, like a conductor of an orchestra. He snaps both fingers and the room dims. The only light is given off by nine burning braziers placed in a circle around Aziraphale. In the mirrors, they look like countless stars and the angel is the center of their galaxy. He's always been the center of Crowley's world. But now, his focus is shifted.

It is pulled to the brazier closest to him, the one that stands directly between him and Aziraphale.

A coiled snake is waiting there, ready to strike.

He is holding the handle of the branding iron. The wood under his hand is warm and blackened by the fire it has been close to. His sweaty palm sticks to it. On the other end, the sigil is glowing orange. He feels the searing heat that's coming from it on his fingers.

He can hear the sickening sizzling as it is pressed to pale skin, smell the scent of burnt flesh, feel the unyielding press of clawed fingers on his hand, not allowing him to drop the branding iron.

He feels the tremors running through the angel's body, carried through the hot metal and wood right into his hand. He feels Aziraphale's eyes on him, clouded with pain. Aziraphale's lips are parted and bloody, drained of all screams… accusing him with their silence.

He can hear and feel and smell it all. The sizzling flesh. The sickening smell of roasting. A tortured scream. But there has been no scream.

He looks at his hand.

It's empty.

There is no branding iron in it. The snake is still waiting in the brazier in front of him, basking in the flames. He avoids looking at it.

Instead, he sees the sigil of _the Adversary_ burnt into the tender skin where Aziraphale's shoulder connects to his neck like a morbid love bite. The branding iron in Satan's hand is smoking as pieces of skin that got stuck to it burn to ashes.

Crowley closes his eyes, like the coward he is.

_Destroyer of Kings._

He can still hear the screams and smell the burning. But if he looks, he knows he will see his own hand holding the branding iron. He keeps his eyes closed and counts the screams.

_Angel of the Bottomless Pit._

Between the screams, he can hear Aziraphale's breath. It is loud and desperate like that of a woman giving birth who's trying to breathe through unbearable pain, an inhale merged with a sob and a moan encompassed in the exhale. No pleas yet. Those will come later, when the screams die down.

_Great Beast that is called Dragon._

He has heard many of Aziraphale's screams and moans by now, and also did a fair share of screaming himself. He can hear the nuances, the difference between a mindless scream and an alert one. He can hear Aziraphale's presence in each of them. He's not trying to hide in reciting poetry or reliving memories. He is keeping himself alert, focused on what's going on. Why? Why won't he retreat into any solace his mind can offer? For Crowley's sake?

_Prince of This World._

He feels guilt eating at him, but he doesn't open his eyes. Even so, he can still see the burning snake sigil on the backside of his eyelids. He can see his hand holding its handle, feel Satan's sharp claws digging into his fingers without doing any damage.

_Father of Lies._

The realities intersect. His angel is hurting. He is hurting his angel.

_Spawn of Satan._

Aziraphale is hurting and Crowley dreads the moment that will come soon, the moment when he gets to choose between the two realities.

_Lord of Darkness._

The scream echoes there, in the darkness behind Crowley's eyelids. It subsides into labored breathing.

"Come here," Satan commands.

Crowley finally opens his eyes. He's not looking at the branding iron in front of him. He's avoiding the fresh burns on the angel's body. He seeks the only safe place he can look - Aziraphale's eyes. Even so, he sees the fiery snake biting into Aziraphale's heart. His legs threaten to buckle as he stands up, but he obeys. He comes closer. The brazier is right next to him. He can feel the heat it emanates. But he's only looking at Aziraphale's eyes.

They are alert. He can see the conscious effort keeping them so, fighting the haze that threatens to cloud their presence. His brave angel...

The cracked lips form a word.

_No_, Aziraphale mouths noiselessly while Satan's attention is on Crowley. The word is clear and certain on his lips, in his eyes. _No_.

"Your turn," Satan says. "One for…"

Crowley tears his eyes away from Aziraphale and looks at Him as the sentence is left unfinished. "One for what?" he asks hoarsely.

Satan smiles. "A day."

Crowley looks at Him in confusion.

"One brand and I'll leave you alone for a day."

Crowley clenches his teeth. He finally looks at the waiting brand. The images and smells and sounds flood him immediately. His breathing gets just as labored as that of the angel. He can see his hand reaching for the handle and he can't discern if it's happening in reality or just in his mind. He feels the wood in his hand. The heat is rising to his fingers. It must be real.

_No_.

But one day. One day of being left alone, of being able to soothe the pain.

_No_.

His knees are trembling. He feels like he will topple over at any moment. But he has to… one day…

_No_.

It's not just his legs that feel like jelly. It's his mind, too. He can't think, he doesn't know what to do. And so he lets himself be led by Aziraphale.

The sigil falls to the ground.

"No."

Satan watches him intently. "As you wish," he says finally.

Then he turns to Aziraphale. "We have been neglecting your wings until now, haven't we? Time to change that."

Crowley staggers under the weight of what he just did with a single word.

Satan points towards him and chains appear and wind themselves around the demon's neck, nearly choking him.

"I'll unlock your bonds so that you can manifest them." Satan says to Aziraphale menacingly. "One wrong move or a miracle and the chains tighten fully."

Aziraphale's eyes turn from Crowley to Satan, wary and still alert. He nods faintly.

Crowley is digging his fingers into the unyielding chains, gasping for breath and hating himself.

Satan takes out a silver key from the breast pocket of His suit. He touches one of the manacles with it and a little keyhole appears. There He turns the key and takes down the open silverish circle. Aziraphale's hand sags to his side with a weak cry from the angel as the charred skin on his shoulder cracks.

The other manacle is opened and nothing supports Aziraphale now. He remains standing.

Satan regards him with a slight surprise as He returns the key into His pocket and shifts the open bonds so that He is holding one in each hand.

"Wings. Now," He snarls.

Aziraphale is trembling, but still remains upright. He takes a deep breath.

A pair of pristine angelic wings unfurls from his bloody back like drifts of fresh snow covering a murder scene, like white sheets pulled over the massacred corpses.

Crowley weeps.

And then Aziraphale staggers, as if the wings unbalanced him - or his strength simply gave out. He takes a step trying to steady himself but fails. His knees buckle and he staggers towards Crowley. He extends his hands and Crowley lets go of the choking chain and takes a step closer, offering support.

But in the last moment, Aziraphale turns away from him. There is something in his eyes, something wild and panicked. Fear. Aziraphale is afraid of him.

Crowley's heart sinks with the angel as he falls. In a last attempt to steady himself, Aziraphale reaches out.

He reaches out to where Satan is standing.

There is a moment of breathless silence as Aziraphale clutches the stylish dark suit. In that silence, Satan smiles slowly and looks at Crowley. He steadies the angel for a heartbeat, giving his wing a little caress.

Crowley falls to his knees.

Then Satan lets the angel fall as well.

Aziraphale hits the ground with a cry of pain, his hands clenched.

Satan leans down and clicks the bonds around his wrists closed. The chain around Crowley's neck unwinds, leaving a darkening bruise.

Aziraphale tries to curl into himself, but as soon as the bonds are in place, the chains connect to them and drag him back to the middle of the room. His wings are stretched into their full span.

Satan gives one more look of malicious amusement to Crowley and then cleans His suit of blood with a snap of fingers. He turns towards the angel. "We have some catching up to do, I believe," he says and summons his whip.

Crowley remains kneeling where he fell. He feels unreal, his spirit screaming behind the dull expression of his eyes.

He watches the whip savaging the purity of angelic wings. Satan pays attention to both sides of them now. He's not being methodical anymore. He's taking out his fury on them. Bloody white feathers are falling... falling... falling... Like snow, like ashes of Crowley's heart. Aziraphale's screams are instinctive now. The wave of pain swept the presence of his mind. He's reduced to pain and fear. Fear of Crowley. Is he afraid of Crowley more than of Satan now?

Bloody feathers and a fiery snake. They merge into one picture, one distorted reality. _One day_, something hisses in Crowley's mind. _You could have one day, if you weren't a coward. Now you have nothing. Everything you care for is crumbling to dust under your hands. Even the angel fears you now._

Time passes, measured by the cracks of a fiery whip. It passes, accompanied by those whispers in his mind.

The screams die down, replaced by pleas. To God… To Satan. Not to Crowley.

Then the cracks of the whip silence, too.

Satan is looking at him. He's saying something.

Crowley blinks, trying to focus.

"A last chance," Satan repeats, "because I'm feeling generous. One brand and I will leave you alone for a day."

Crowley grits his teeth. He feels a sting in his eyes, but no tears come out anymore. He nods.

Satan helps him rise to his feet and presses the branding iron into his hand.

Crowley closes his eyes.

Satan guides his hand gently, giving direction but not forcing it. And Crowley follows.

He feels the branding iron meeting something soft. He feels the tremble transferred into his hand. He smells the burning flesh. He keeps his eyes closed.

Then the branding iron is removed from his hand and something heavy is slowly lowered to the ground next to him.

His mind feels like a stream during a flood, full of dirt and mud and driftwood, swirling and roaring and incapable of clear thought.

Slowly, the flood subsides and the mud settles on the bottom. He dares to open his eyes.

Satan is gone, as he promised. They are alone.

Aziraphale's features are twisted in pain. His mouth is open, the upper lip bloody and swollen from the gash that runs across his cheek. The breaths that come out of it are hitching, accompanied by quiet moans. His hands are clenched, his whole body tense. And his eyes are open.

Aziraphale is awake. Awake and in agony.

Crowley is still frozen, unable to react.

Aziraphale meets his eyes and then looks away, urgent and pleading.

Crowley follows his look. It leads him to Aziraphale's hand. The fingers twitch a little.

It's the only part of the angel's body that's unhurt. Crowley reaches for it, hoping he can give some comfort with the touch. He's ready to withdraw immediately, as soon as a flicker of fear appears in Aziraphale's eyes.

It doesn't. He feels the clenched fingers opening under his touch. There's something hard and small under them, pressed into Aziraphale's palm.

The touch sends a jolt through his whole essence. It spreads instantly like an electric shock. It is hope.

Crowley's breath catches in his throat. He brings his wings around them, hiding them in their embrace. Only then does he dare to look. There is a key in Aziraphale's hand and it glimmers like silver.

"Angel… is that… Oh God, you did it! How? You… Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale's eyes are closed now.

Only then does Crowley register a reddish glow tinting the inside of his wings. A terrible realisation lurks at the edge of his mind.

He doesn't want to look there. He doesn't want to look, but the snake draws his attention. Its body seems to be coiling in hypnotic patterns, twisting posessively above Aziraphale's heart. The flesh underneath is still smoldering, glowing like embers in a fireplace.

Crowley presses his hand to the burn, trying to put it out.

It doesn't go out.

The realisation looms over his thoughts like a dark shadow.

_No. No. Not now. Please, no._

He stares at the burn, his mind refusing to take it in. He can't take it in or he will shatter completely.

It sinks in with a fatal inevitability.

_Hellfire_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's still some hot chocolate with mead left from chapter 9, if someone needs it. It will start getting better soon, I promise.


	17. Investigation

Musdur is only using one long needle. They like focusing their attention into that one, sharp point. It is relaxing, almost meditative. They can feel the confusion in their mind clearing, the new pieces of knowledge drifting into a proper place. They know what to do now. They are just waiting for the proper moment.

The angel is pressing his lips into a firm line, intent on not screaming. The mantis and facepaint are holding him down with the axolotl watching from a safe distance.

Musdur could make the angel scream, if they wanted. They could tip the balance towards the point where he would have no choice but to scream. But they're enjoying keeping it on the verge of that, giving the angel a challenge and seeing how he handles it.

There's almost no blood. Not even any serious or long-term damage. Musdur is focused solely on the pain, perceiving it through the sensitive touch of their fingers, drinking it greedily. They can feel it's the angel's first time being in this much pain.

When Zadkiel's lips quiver, threatening to let out a scream, Musdur withdraws slightly, giving him time to gather his resolve before pressing again. It's a delicate dance between them. A delicate dance between all of them: the torturer and the tortured, the watchers. Musdur is thinking about their reputation that could suffer if they let the angel go but also about other things.

The transmission is still going on even as Musdur is working. They watch it. Feel is enough for them to know what they are doing with the needle, so they can keep their eyes on the screen. Even Zadkiel watches it as he is pressing his lips to keep the screams in. A distraction from the pain, maybe. Musdur allows it.

It's hard to see what's going on now as Crowley spreads his wings and shields both himself and the supine angel.

Suddenly a flash of black light fills the screen. The speakers of the ancient TV struggle with a sound that is too loud for them and turns into an ear-splitting shriek of tortured electronics.

The angel and demon disappear from the shot. From where they had been just a moment ago, a shockwave is spreading, pushing a wall of bloody feathers. A silver cobweb of cracks spreads in front of the camera.

Then the picture shatters.

Something hits the camera and static fills the screen.

In the stunned silence, Musdur slowly withdraws their needle. Like a regretful parting, they press against a nerve with the move, eliciting a little whimper from the angel.

Then they slam the needle into the neck of the facepaint demon.

Before they can withdraw the needle from the corpse, the mantis strikes, lightning-fast.

A rising commotion can be heard outside in the hall. Zadkiel yelps as the praying (who came up that name, really?) mantis demon falls right on him, staining his corporation with pale, sticky ichor. Suddenly unrestrained, he struggles against her until her body slides down and he can see the short dagger protruding from her nape. He jumps up, defensive.

But nobody attacks him. Musdur's eyes are narrowed as they watch the axolotl demon. The dagger in the axolotl's hand matches the one in the mantis's corpse and proves the childish expression in his face deceptive.

Zadkiel's head spins after rising too suddenly. He feels weak and sore. He leans on a dusty chalkboard covered in vulgar drawings and tries to keep himself ready to fight through the increasing dizziness.

"I'm going to let the angel go," Musdur says in a low voice.

"Fine with me," the axolotl smiles in a broad grin.

"And you're not going to tell anyone if you want to keep your current corporation."

"Tell? That's right, I'm not going to tell anyone."

Musdur still watches him suspiciously.

"I'm from the Infernal Times. I'm going to write about it. And I've got a journalist pass, can get a new corporation in a matter of hours."

Musdur regards him, clutching the needle in an offensive stance.

Zadkiel holds his breath. Seeing the demons not paying attention to him, he pushes himself away from the chalkboard and staggers a little. Keeping his back to the wall, he makes it to the video recorder. He looks at it briefly to locate the _stop _button and then keeps watching the demons warily.

He presses the button and the device stops humming. Then presses it again. And again. He looks at the recorder for a second, but quickly turns back to the demons.

Musdur snorts. "The button on the left. Inscribed _eject_."

Zadkiel feels the buttons with his fingers and finds the leftmost one. He presses it and the recorder makes a choking sound and yields the tape.

"So what are you going to write about… after you get a new body?" Musdur inquires, watching the angel who is trying to collect both tapes without actually looking at them.

"You think I will write that you smuggled an angel into Hell and then let him go? No, although I'll keep that one as a leverage on you," the axolotl grins.

Zadkiel is trying to make his way to the door in an unsuspicious manner, skirting around the mantis's corpse. The door is locked, but the key is there. If he is lucky...

"What are you doing here then?" Musdur asks. "You might want that cloak I lent you before to get out without someone noticing," they mutter towards the angel without a pause.

Zadkiel stops his slow advance to the door. "Uh… may I borrow it, please?"

Musdur smirks. "Give me a moment to finish with the scribbler here. So, what do you actually want to achieve?" they turn to the axolotl demon again. "Get yourself dismembered?"

"Maybe, wouldn't be anything new. And what are you trying to achieve?" axolotl asks, giving a pointed look to Zadkiel.

"I don't want my face slapped on that second-rate torture in some heavenly propaganda. Might also be amusing if the pricks Upstairs found out what bullshit their bosses have been feeding them," Musdur shrugs.

"Might be indeed, if the egghead can make it."

Zadkiel is suddenly nervous, unsure. He almost drops the tapes, as if they are burning his hands. It can't be a good thing to bring them Upstairs, if it's what the demons want.

"I'm after a related story, actually," axolotl continues. "The one about the cooperation of Heaven's and Hell's management. And of course, some of the angel's insight into the Highest Boss's torture practices will make a nice column as well. People are curious about that."

"The management will not allow it. You will be punished if you make that public," Zadkiel says, surprising himself.

"So?" axolotl shrugs.

Zadkiel opens his mouth, but he realizes he doesn't know what to say. Demons are already supposed to be punished. They Fell as punishment for their rebellion and everyone in Heaven knows that there is no feeling worse than Falling.

Axolotl is still watching the needle in Musdur's hand, but he smiles a little. "The cooperation is old news anyway. Everybody knows that we have been using the angels' stupidity to get what we want."

"You… what?" Zadkiel gapes.

"Oh, you don't know about the cooperation? You don't know Michael brought the holy water for Crowley's trial? And we supplied the hellfire for Aziraphale's…"

Zadkiel gapes further.

"Ooooh, sweet!" axolotl chuckles. "You don't even know about the trials? They never told you they tried to execute Aziraphale with hellfire?"

Zadkiel shakes his head slowly.

"Heh. What does the Celestial Observer even write about? Rating the fluffiness of clouds? Anyway, I'm after the details of that cooperation because it seems that Heaven has been using us as well, to a certain extent. I'm not going to put it that bluntly, though. Even investigative journalists have some sense of self-preservation. What we publish must work with questions, not answers. Make the readers wonder _what if._ Offer theories, no concrete claims. Then reveal facts only when they become public knowledge."

Zadkiel clutches the tapes in his hands more firmly again, not moving. He finds himself listening with fascination instead of grabbing the cloak and making a run for it. He only wanted to share those tapes with his old platoon, as the explanation they have been seeking. But now he is getting some different ideas. Dangerous ideas...

"But you actually can do that?" he asks. "You can write about such questions and theories? You can just… ask?"

Both demons lower their weapons a little and look at him.

"Sure you can ask or say anything. You may have your intestines ripped out for it, but nobody can forbid you to ask," axolotl says.

Musdur smiles slowly. "A part of being a demon, I guess. Considering a Fall? I can help you with that…"

"No… No, thank you," Zadkiel says hastily, but his expression is thoughtful.

He remembers Aziraphale's reports. How a play about some event can feel more touching than witnessing the event in reality. How written words can be used to stir and wake emotions.

"Do you think it would be possible to deliver the Infernal Times to Heaven?" he asks.

The demons stare at him in surprise.

"Why would you want that? You've got the tapes, shouldn't that be more than enough?" axolotl asks.

"It's too much," Zadkiel murmurs. "Heaven's not ready for the truth yet. It would be dismissed as demonic manipulation. You said the facts should become public knowledge first. Only then reveal them." Then he presses his hand to his mouth as if he had just realized what he said. He looks torn, conflicted. It should be wrong, to listen to demons. To agree with them. And yet… He has seen the version of events that Heaven has been presented with and the true one. That difference feels more wrong than cooperating with demons, somehow.

"Why Infernal Times, though?" axolotl asks with a little smirk.

"It would be an untrustworthy source," Zadkiel replies despite his inner voice screaming '_bad angel!_' at him - in an Archangel's voice. "The propaganda of the enemy. _Of course I don't believe it, I just want to know what ridiculous claims they are spreading_, anyone might say. But the idea would get there. I've got a few friends who could help me spread it..."

"Okay, just to make sure," Musdur interrupts, looking at the axolotl. "We're not killing each other right now, are we? Because it's getting a bit hard to focus on everything at once."

"No, not now," axolotl agrees and to demonstrate it, he puts aside his dagger.

Musdur sheathes their needle. "Okay, so this is all very nice, and I really hope that holy shit who dared to put my face on some mediocre torture gets to eat it, but you all saw that, right? I just feel like we're not addressing that properly. They escaped, didn't they?"

"Well, yes, it seems so," axolotl says. "But everyone saw what we did. That makes it not much of a story. Unless you got some theories on how it happened. Hm. Speaking about that, some angelic insight could be useful here. Mind playing that second tape again?"

Zadkiel licks his dry lips, clutching the tapes.

"You can take it afterwards, I just want your opinion."

Curiosity wins. Zadkiel pushes the tape back into the recorder and presses _play_. Nothing happens. There's only static on the screen. He inhales sharply.

Musdur watches his rising panic for a while and seems to enjoy it. "You have to rewind it first," they say finally. "Let me."

Zadkiel hesitates, but then lets the demon to the video recorder. He steps closer to the screen as the last moments captured on the video play again.

"They teleported somewhere," he says finally, relief evident in his voice. "Crowley did."

"No shit," the axolotl murmurs impatiently. "It's clear that the angel was in no state to teleport them anywhere. How did Crowley do it, though? The bonds are miracle-proof."

"Impossible to break by any means," Musdur adds.

"In that case, they had to get the key somehow," Zadkiel says reasonably, smiling as he realizes fully that Aziraphale is free from the terrible torture, cared for by his demon right now. Not all demons are that bad, it seems.

Musdur shakes their head. "The Boss has the only key."

"Maybe he doesn't anymore," Zadkiel shrugs.

"Impossible… or?"

The commotion in the halls is still loud, but they ignore it. The footage is studied frame by frame. The video recorder knows better than to reveal that it doesn't have that function to the demon with the needle.

Zadkiel seems rather uncomfortable with the detailed shots, but he studies them closely anyway.

"Here!" he exclaims at one point as they are watching the same scene for the third time. He's so focused on solving the puzzle he has almost forgotten he's among enemies.

"I don't see anything," axolotl frowns.

Zadkiel points to a particular point on the screen. "Aziraphale's hand. Close to Satan's pocket. That's the last moment we see his hand open, after that it's clenched. He staggered towards Satan and leant at Him for a moment. That was calculated, he must have pickpocketed the key here." He grins, feeling proud to have served under Aziraphale's command. The command of an angel who crossed Satan Himself, endured the terrible torture and managed to keep enough presence of mind through the pain to secure a means for their escape. He touches the insignia of the flaming sword on his jacket.

Musdur shifts the footage by one frame and squints at the screen. "It's too blurry, but it seems like he has something in his hand here."

Next frame.

"And here it's already clenched. I think you are right."

Axolotl whistles quietly. "Lord of Hell pickpocketed by a half-dead angel. Now that's something even I wouldn't dare to publish."

"I wouldn't want to be there when He finds out," Musdur agrees.

"Why didn't He even break his fingers first? Or pull out the nails, you know, the classics…" axolotl wonders. "Not that He could predict the angel to do something like that, but then he wouldn't be able to."

"Too delicate a job, He wouldn't have patience for it," Musdur scoffs. "And an invulnerability spell. Beelzebub told me, otherwise I would have started with fingers, too. A lot of sensitive spots in the fingers. But Crowley tried to bite his thumbs off so he could pull off the bonds. That's why they put an invulnerability spell on his hands, and apparently the angel's as well."

"Archangel shit, someone's in trouble…" axolotl mutters. "Where do you think they teleported?"

"Somewhere safe, I hope," Zadkiel says. _And if not, we will make it so_, he makes a silent promise in his mind.

Musdur rewinds and ejects the tape.

"Okay, egghead," they flash a predatory smile as they give it back to the angel. "I'll help you with the Infernal Times. If we keep in touch, maybe I'll get to torture you again sometime."

Zadkiel gets a bit unsure but then narrows his eyes. There's pride in them, awakened by the daring deed of his commander. "I can usually defend myself, you know. It was four against one here, totally unfair."

"That a challenge?" Musdur grins. "By the way, how do you feel now?"

Zadkiel pauses. "Uhm… actually... quite fine already."

"See? Just a bit of harmless fun," Musdur smirks and takes off their cloak. "Now let's get you out of here."

* * *

Under a heap of shattered glass and rubble, something moves.

There is a sound like a furious fly, captured under a shot glass, just a thousand times louder.

The shards that have only now settled shift again, cascading down with a loud clatter. A swarm of flies flows in streams from all the gaps. The streams dance around each other, clash and divide again. Finally they connect and form the vague shape of a figure.

"Zzzzzzwhat the fuck wazzzzzz that?" the figure says as soon as it has a mouth, formed by hundreds of squirming insect bodies.

"They teleported somewhere," another voice replies.

The mosaic eyes focus in that direction. The entity who spoke is in human form and currently spending a rather excessive number of frivolous miracles on fixing their expensive suit.

The flies merge into demonic flesh, oozing something better left unidentified. "I can tell zzzzzhat, you idiot! But how… the bondzzzzz. You guaranteed they were miracle-proof."

"They are. They must have gotten the key somehow."

"Impozzzzzzzible."

"Then ask your Boss if he has it," Gabriel says smugly.

"Not now," Beelzebub snarls, buzzing with tension. "We need to get them back!"

"I imagine your Boss will be furious if we don't," Gabriel muses.

"Bookshop," Beelzebub just says and disappears.

Was there a hint of panic in the voice of the Prince of Hell? Gabriel shakes his head and follows.

* * *

A. Z. Fell and Co., Antiquarian and unusual books, London, Soho:

It's quiet in the bookshop. There are still books on the floor, the soil from the broken pot staining their open pages. The plant that used to be there is almost dead: only a few wilting leaves are still struggling, the rest of them are dry.

Gabriel moves to the back of the shop. The bananas next to the overturned fruit bowl are dark brown. The pears are soft and mushy, but the oranges and apples are still looking fine. Only the one under the table has a big brown spot spreading from the place where it hit the ground. Mould has started to grow in the cups of tea and coffee. Gabriel makes a disgusted face and moves upstairs.

That's where he finds Beelzebub, sniffing the bed sheets.

The TV is still on. "Buy the professional set of master chef knives now and you will get not just this awesome cheese grater but also this multifunctional tool for ornamental vegetable cutting for free! Call now…"

Gabriel raises an eyebrow.

Beelzebub straightens. "They haven't been here."

"I can see that."

"Crowley's flat!"

Gabriel sighs and follows Beelzebub who has already disappeared.

* * *

Crowley's flat, London, Mayfair:

The space would not feel like one meant for living to a human, but neither Gabriel nor Beelzebub seem to perceive anything off. The aesthetics are a peculiar mix of Heaven and Hell: empty space and gloomy walls.

What both Gabriel and Beelzebub can perceive is that nobody has been here for a long time. There is some furniture and a few decorations, but it's all covered by a layer of dust. It looks more like a storage for stacks of second-hand books and gardening supplies: bags of soil, peat and sand, clay pots.

"Stop for a moment!" Gabriel snaps, annoyed.

Beelzebub looks at him. "We need to find them!"

"Then stop and think, you drosophila! They wouldn't go to the first place that we check!"

"Where elzzzze could they go, though?"

"I don't know. To some of their human friends, maybe. Or the Antichrist. They might try to hide under his protection."

"Hmmmzzzzzz. Where doezzzz he live again?"

"Tadfield."

"They might try to hide there, but they won't be able to. He refuzzzzed his powerzzz."

* * *

Lower Tadfield, Oxfordshire:

When Mrs. Young opens the door, she sees two persons. One looks like a businessman with a confident expression. The other one looks like a harried elementary teacher.

"Do not be afraid," starts the businessman in a booming voice, startling her.

"Why? What happened?"

"Don't mind him," says the teacher, giving the businessman an inconspicuous elbow hit. "We are looking for Adam."

"Why? What did he do?"

Gabriel rolls his eyes and snaps his fingers. Mrs. Young's expresion goes vacant.

"We are looking for an escaped angel and demon. Your son might be hiding them. Have you seen anything suspicious?"

"Adam is in school. I haven't seen any angels or demons," Mrs. Young answers mechanically.

"Damn. You don't mind if we look around a bit."

It's not a question. The two entities enter the house and head straight for Adam's bedroom. There's no trace of anything supernatural with the exception of Adam himself.

* * *

Jasmine cottage, Tadfield, Oxfordshire:

"Anathema! We have guests!"

The witch comes to the door right away, sensing the confusion in Newt's voice.

"What do _you_ want here?"

It's half an hour later.

"Exorcised. Me. Archangel Gabriel. How the Hell do you exorcise an angel?"

"It zzzeems that witchezzz have their methods," Beelzebub smirks.

"A combination of parts of the Satanic and Christian masses. Seriously? You would think it would just cancel itself. Why do we even have that rule about not hurting humans, remind me?"

"Szzzzomthing with szouls. No traitorzzz in her house, though."

"No. She has no idea where they went."

* * *

Hell and Heaven main entrance, London:

"Why did that man point hizzz finger at us?"

"I think he believed it would do something in combination with that glittery jingle bell, lighter and advertising leaflet."

"Szzztrange."

"They haven't been there, though."

"No. They haven't. Any other ideazzz?"

"I fear they could be anywhere. I will employ the Earth surveillance."

"And I will send demonzzz to check all possible hiding placezzz."

"What if they are not on Earth?"

"Then we will check elszzewhere. I've got a tip on Alpha Centauri."

"Hmm… When do you think your Boss will start getting impatient?"

"Shut up."

"Sure, sure. Not my problem, obviously," Gabriel grins. "Just showing my concern."

The grin is wiped out by a rather petite, but very strong fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any tips? We shall see if they are right in the next chapter!


	18. The snake and the Little Principality

Crowley opens his eyes. There is sand in them. There is sand everywhere. In his hair, in his shoes, in his mouth. It's finding its way under his clothes, into his wounds.

_Aziraphale!_

That's his first thought. Not the usual stuff like where am I, what happened and why does my head feel like a team of cricket players mistook it for a ball. His first thought is panicked, making him bolt upright, making him ignore the movement of fabric stuck to his hurt back, ignore the tearing and warm wetness of fresh blood.

He registers the pale sand as a mere inconsequential background when he sees Aziraphale.

The angel is lying face-down in it, his wings spread and missing over half of their feathers, the remaining ones broken or disheveled. There are gashes on his wings and back, bleeding sluggishly. Some burns on his legs and arms are visible as well in this position. The sand is sticking to the wounds and to the pale skin, its white grains almost invisible in the white curls of his hair.

"Aziraphale!"

Crowley's voice is raspy, full of sand and guilt, bordering on panic.

There is no reaction to it.

Crowley reaches out. His hand is shaking. He sees it holding a branding iron, burning with hellfire, hurting… _killing_ Aziraphale. He's afraid to touch. He's afraid to hurt again. And most of all he's afraid to feel the emptiness of death under his fingers. He remembers it vividly: the clammy feel of skin, still warm but cooling slowly, the blood stagnant in veins, a mere piece of flesh mockingly shaped in the form of a beloved being without the spirit inside. He's afraid to feel it again. It would be different now. It would be final.

"Aziraphale…"

The angel's head is tilted to one side. Crowley notices something there.

A grain of sand moves. A breath.

"Angel!"

There is still life under his touch as he gently places his palm on Aziraphale's cheek. He feels the blood pulsing, the spirit still inside the body. Burning.

"Oh angel…"

That's when his focus shifts to the background.

The sand.

Sand all around.

No trace of greenery, of life, of anything.

Wrong place.

Or maybe even worse - right place, wrong time.

"Oh."

His hope crumbles into the sand and the sand swallows it like the once fertile land under the dunes.

He wants to scream until his throat is raw. He wants to lie down in the sand and never move again, to let it bury him like an ancient pharaoh, hide all pain and guilt from the face of the world.

Later, he can do that. Now there is still one thing he can do. A painful thing. He deserves painful.

He spreads his wings on the ground, right next to Aziraphale's side. Carefully, he turns Aziraphale to lie on them.

The angel moans with the movement.

The fiery serpent on his chest is revealed, glowing like embers in a fire burning under the surface. Smoldering veins are spreading from it all across the angel's chest, already reaching the left shoulder.

Crowley draws a shaky breath, steadying himself against the overwhelming guilt and grief. Not yet.

One desperate attempt.

He reaches towards the burning sigil like a snake whisperer. He focuses on the hellfire, tries to coax it out of the angelic essence and into his own. He beckons, pleads, argues.

Nothing helps. It wants to consume. Like a predator that has bitten into the neck of its prey, it won't obey any power in the world, it won't stop until it devours the last bit of holiness. It seems to spread even faster under Crowley's touch, and so he withdraws, defeated. Holy water wouldn't help, he knows. It doesn't work like that. There's only one thing in the world that could save an angel from hellfire and that thing is 6000 years in the past.

He doesn't call Aziraphale anymore. Unconsciousness is a mercy. If it fails though, he is there. It's too familiar by now, the way he can only be there without actually helping in any way that matters. Soothing words, stories to distract from the pain. It's of no use against hellfire. It can only ease the finals hours a little.

The sun blazes and he's sweating in the cheap suit. It stings in his wounds. He barely registers the pain. It's distant, it's nothing. The true pain comes from watching the veins of fire branching and spreading, very slowly but steadily. There is no power in the world that could stop them now. It's dead, buried under the sand.

Aziraphale moans again. His breath quickens.

And Crowley freezes. He suddenly remembers the fear in Aziraphale's eyes. He could try to convince himself it was just an act to fool Satan, but he is a demon. He can sense true fear. He's suddenly not sure whether his presence eases the suffering or just makes everything worse. Maybe it would be better to hide and never show his face. He can't do that, though. Aziraphale is lying on his wings.

"Crowley…" Aziraphale whispers. His eyes are still closed.

A shaky breath. "I'm here."

"Oh Crowley… it hurts..." He still doesn't open his eyes, but his voice is surprisingly steady and present despite the pain in it.

A sob. "I'm so sorry, angel."

"It's hellfire, isn't it?"

"Y-Yes. I'm so sorry. I didn't notice. I fucking didn't notice. I was too… too... "

"Language, dear," Aziraphale murmurs. Then he sighs and finally opens his eyes. They are glossy with fever. And now they fill with tears as they focus on Crowley. There is no fear in them now, but whether it's absent or just well hidden, it's impossible to tell.

"Too distressed by my pain and wanting to stop it? It's alright," he whispers softly.

Crowley sobs. He did not imagine it like this. The comforting was supposed to go the other way.

"We are free, right?" Aziraphale's voice is faltering. There's so much pain in it it's a wonder he can form coherent words.

"Yes. Yes, we are. Thanks to you. You did it. You fooled Satan with a goddamned sleight of hand, you wonderful angel. You were amazing. I... " Crowley shivers. "... I'm so sorry I ruined it. I killed y-you, Aziraphale. I…" His voice breaks, full of bitter tears.

"Not… dead yet. But if someone did… it's Satan. Not you," Aziraphale whispers urgently, but his lips do not close after the last syllable. They gasp as a new vein of fire sprouts from the sigil, aiming for his abdomen. His whole body tenses, his face in a grimace, teeth clenched between parted lips. "Never you," he finishes after the pain settles in.

Crowley isn't convinced, but arguing makes no sense. He can at least pretend he has forgiven himself for Aziraphale's sake. To make it easier for him. He focuses on that, grasping at every moment in time that's running between his fingers, the last moments of them being together. That knowledge is crushing. He makes a brave face but it does not fool Aziraphale.

"Crowley… It's not your fault dear… I hate leaving you like this… I… agh!"

"Easy, angel. Don't speak if it hurts you."

"Excuse me darling, but… ow… but when else am I supposed to speak? Don't have much time, so… so you better listen, okay?"

Crowley sniffles, reminded of arguments about driving or furniture placement, the little inconsequential fights that were always fought without any doubt of mutual love and ended with apologies and snuggles.

"Do you love me?" Aziraphale asks.

"Angel, what kind of a trick question is that? Of course I love you."

Aziraphale closes his eyes slowly and then opens them again - a substitute for a nod.

"I love you too," he whispers. "And I want you to do something for me."

"Of course, angel," Crowley sobs.

"I want you…" Aziraphale grits his teeth in pain, but then relaxes them through conscious effort, speaking with urgency. "I want you to take the love you have for me… and give it to yourself. Care for yourself as I would. Promise me, please. I need to know you will be loved and cared for when I'm not here… and I can't trust anyone else with it. Do it for me, please. Promise me…"

Crowley gulps. "I…" His voice breaks. With effort, he collects himself. "I promise," he whispers.

"Liar..." Aziraphale smiles sadly.

Crowley bites his lip.

"It's okay, my dearest," Aziraphale says and his hand moves weakly, reaching for Crowley. "It may not be now. Just a little seed of temptation that I want to plant. It may take time to grow. It's okay…"

Crowley takes the hand. The skin is too hot and dry to the touch. He can feel the pulse of hellfire in Aziraphale's essence. The spreading burns are just a physical manifestation on his corporation. It's the angel's true self that is burning. It's the most agonizing death Crowley can imagine.

"Temptation," he smiles bitterly. "That's my job. I've got one for you, I fear."

"I know," Aziraphale whispers.

"I can't make it painless. I'm so sorry. Even at that I'm useless. Killing your corporation wouldn't help. The hellfire would just continue burning your discorporated essence. The only thing I can do is make it faster. Same pain, but focused into a few moments instead of dragging it out. It would be over soon."

Aziraphale smiles at him lovingly. "My dear snake…"

"I wouldn't offer it if I saw any hope…"

"My dear rose. You are so selfless to offer it."

"Ngk. Don't you mean insolent? Even the first time… you asked me not to do it, and I didn't listen. I promised I won't discorporate you and then I did just that. I hurt you and then your body died."

"I just didn't want you to carry that burden. But you did it for me. I just wanted to stay… stay..." he struggles for breath. The fire is spreading into his lungs.

Crowley presses his hand. "Stay with me?" It sounds like a plea.

"Y-yes…" Aziraphale manages to draw a painful breath. "Yes. I… didn't know... I thought I wouldn't see you again. It's alright, darling. You did well."

"But I did it again, Aziraphale. I burnt you and now it's not just your body that's dying. And the only thing I can do now… is break that promise again." Crowley's voice is choked, but he doesn't allow himself to break yet. He needs to stay strong now. Give a little final mercy. Then he can break.

"Not yet," Aziraphale's breath is raspy and smells of smoke. "But… when it gets unbearable… to me or to you… Yes. If I can't be with my rose… I'll have to ask you… to be my snake. My dearest snake… As a mercy, not a burden..."

Crowley nods, suppressing tears.

"Is that… why we're in the desert?" Aziraphale asks weakly and coughs with that. A little spark comes out of his mouth and sizzles as it falls on Crowley's feathers.

"No," Crowley sighs. "I wanted to bring you to the one place that could save you."

"A desert?"

"No. The one where it all began. Where I met you. But it's not here anymore. There's a desert instead."

"Oh. You mean…" Aziraphale focuses on their surroundings fully for the first time. "Crowley! It's…" Cough. "It's not here!"

"What?" the demon tenses, afraid to hope again. But Aziraphale is bound to that place. If anyone can sense it, it would be him. "Where is it then?"

"Ten miles… there," Aziraphale struggles to raise his hand. His finger points firmly in one direction before it falls back in exhaustion.

Crowley remains kneeling, but embraces Aziraphale tighter. He scrapes the bottom of his reserves for a teleportation spell. He has to reach so deep it hurts, but he manages to teleport them.

They land about fifteen centimeters in the desired direction.

Aziraphale gasps with the sudden movement. "It's protected…" he forces the words from spasming lungs. "By a… no-miracle zone."

Crowley understands now why his teleportation spell didn't work - neither the first nor the second time.

For a moment he contemplates how to take Aziraphale into his arms without pressing on his wounds. That's impossible though, since his back is criss-crossed by them and it's the hellfire burn on the chest that he wants to spare most. He can't hesitate for too long. The burn is spreading.

He puts one hand under the wing joints and immediately he feels the hot wetness under it, the grains of sand that his hand is pushing deeper into the wounds. The other hand he puts under Aziraphale's knees and can't help irritating the burns there, purposefully made on the sensitive skin of their crooks to cause unbearable pain with every movement.

Aziraphale winces a little, but makes no sound. The intensity of the hellfire burn must drown out all other pain.

Crowley makes sure that he is holding Aziraphale securely and then jumps into the air.

His wings beat once, twice. His back feels like fireworks are exploding in it and it's New Year with every move. He strains his wings to work through the pain, but it feels like they are catching no air. He cannot take off. He just jostles Aziraphale, making his wounds bleed stronger again. "A no-flight zone as well," he mutters bitterly, giving up the tries.

He looks at the angel, takes in the sight.

The white curls are a mess, full of sweat and blood and sand. He wishes he could wash and comb them. He wishes they were the biggest problem. As it is, they are very low on the list of priorities.

Little beads of sweat are on Aziraphale's forehead as well, looking like mist on a fine porcelain cup after pouring the hot water for tea into it. That's how his skin looks - a white porcelain, with the rosy glaze of fever in his cheeks. His eyes are closed now, squeezed shut against the pain. Blood from the wings is dripping on the sand.

Crowley wishes he could spend a miracle for healing the physical wounds, at least, before they enter the no-miracle zone. But he is exhausted and needs to save his strength in case a miracle can help in saving the angel's essence before hellfire devours it completely.

Even when not flying, his back is strained by the burden in his hands. He would rather tear his own flesh than drop it. He grits his teeth and sets out in the direction Aziraphale showed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know now where they are going, don't you? The fact that nobody guessed it despite there being a hint in the title of the story for the whole time makes me think that they'll be safe there ;)


	19. Walking to the well

One foot in front of the other.

The sand shifts and sinks under Crowley's feet, making it hard to walk with his burden. Urgency is drawing him forward, though. He had tried running, but it had been too exhausting and almost made him lose his balance with every step. He has settled into a fast walking pace instead.

One foot in front of the other.

Up and down the dunes. Ignoring the rough pulsing pain in his back and the dull ache in his shoulders.

One foot in front of the other.

Ignoring the blazing sun, the heat beating like a hammer into his skull.

One foot in front of the other.

Ignoring the sand in his shoes and under his clothes, in his hair and mouth and in his wounds.

One foot in front of the other.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the horizon, focused on not losing the direction, the desperate hope that lies there.

One foot in front of the other.

Feeling the spasms and tremors in the body he is holding, hearing the pained breaths and moans.

One foot in front of the other.

Feeling the agony under his hands like his own, clenching his teeth with each step.

One foot in front of the other.

Worrying about the heat increasing Aziraphale's fever, causing the hellfire to burn faster in his essence.

One foot in front of the other.

Worrying about the sand getting into Aziraphale's wounds, irritating them even further.

One foot in front of the other.

Worrying about the rising wind, the grains of sand in the air hitting everything that stands in their path like miniature shrapnel, obscuring his view of the set direction.

He stops and brings his wings in front of his body like a cloak, shielding Aziraphale from the sandstorm as well as he can.

Then he sets one foot in front of the other again.

And again.

He's leaning against the wind, fighting for every step.

He doesn't breathe. It's better than inhaling the sand.

And again.

He needs to remind himself to not breathe.

And again.

He inhales anyways and starts coughing.

It doesn't make him stop.

One foot in front of the other. Again and again and again. Time is running out, slipping between his fingers like sand.

The wind abates. Slowly, the horizon clears.

In the distance, he can see walls.

"Aziraphale! We are almost there, angel! Angel?"

He opens his wings.

The glow of hellfire is illuminating them blood-red. The whole left side of Aziraphale's chest is smoldering with it, the veins of fire reaching towards his arms and thighs, one climbing up his neck. He is not breathing.

"Angel!"

He doesn't need to breathe, Crowley reminds himself. He doesn't need to breathe. He's not dead.

A holy spear piercing Crowley's mind. That's Aziraphale's look when he suddenly opens his eyes. A focused, intense point of agony.

"C-Crowley…"

It squeezes Crowley's heart like a wrung laundry.

"Almost there… Just a moment longer…" he whispers.

"Crowley… I can't…"

"No. No. It will be alright. Hold on, please…"

Aziraphale sobs. Then he grits his teeth and closes his eyes again.

Crowley grits his teeth as well, knowing that Aziraphale can't deal with the pain he's in any longer.

He starts running. It makes him lose his balance. He's stumbling and falling forwards, but manages to move his legs in time to stop himself from toppling over. It feels like a snake trying to run. It is a little faster than walking, but twice as exhausting. For that little difference, it's worth it.

Aziraphale is squirming in his arms now, screaming in agony. Crowley is pressing him to his chest to not drop him in his staggering run.

The walls are getting closer.

Crowley barely sees them through the tears. His heart feels too big for his chest, squeezed in the tight space and pressing itself into his throat. He grits his teeth and looks at the sun. It's sinking on his left. He turns right, looking for the Eastern gate.

The walls are close now, looming over him, a tantalizing vision of salvation.

Suddenly a stream crosses his path, flowing in a shallow bed along the walls. A most unusual sight, in the middle of a desert. The air is pleasantly cool around it. It draws him closer, beckons him to drink from it, to wash Aziraphale's wounds. Maybe the cold of the water could ease the burn…

He leans over the stream.

"N-No," sounds between the screams and sobs, urgently.

Crowley looks at Aziraphale.

"N-No… That's… Lethe…"

Crowley recoils.

The river of forgetfulness. The Greeks believed it to be flowing through the underworld. Dante wrote about it flowing through the Purgatory. Crowley thought it was just a myth: he knew it wasn't either Above or Below. It wasn't a myth, though. God placed it here, to protect the lost Eden from any unwanted visitors. Nobody knew about it. Nobody but God and the angel who had been present when the Paradise had been closed to all.

It's not much, as rivers go. Just a narrow stream, finding its way through a bed of sand. But a stream in the desert is enough to tempt everyone who comes across it to drink. Crowley has to give that to God - a sure temptation for minimal effort is a style he can appreciate.

He jumps over the stream and steadies himself when his feet threaten to buckle - the jump a last drop after a long exertion. He cannot fail now.

He can touch the rough stones of the wall. He can see the whole Eastern side of it.

No gate.

Aziraphale is delirious. The burn now covers his whole chest and is spreading to the abdomen. The heat rising from it is intense even in the hot air of the desert.

"Aziraphale!"

No response between the sobs.

"Aziraphale! Angel, where is the gate? Listen to me!"

Crowley walks along the wall, trying to find any trace of the gate as he speaks. When he was here last time, he came through the ground straight from Hell and left the same way. That way is blocked now, but there has to be a gate. Aziraphale is the angel of the Eastern Gate. Where is the gate?

"Aziraphale! Just a moment, love! Please, I need you…"

That seems to do it. Because Crowley needs him, Aziraphale focuses his gaze.

"Where is the gate, Aziraphale?" Crowley asks desperately.

For a moment, Aziraphale stares at him without understanding. Then he registers the wall, so close that he could touch the stones if he had the strength to move. He has none. He just looks back, at the part of the wall that Crowley passed already. His whole body is trembling, cold sweat mixing with blood and making Crowley's grip precarious. "T-There…"

Crowley returns immediately, letting Aziraphale's eyes guide him. When they stop at one portion of the wall, he stops there as well.

"Here?"

Aziraphale's nod is barely perceptible.

Crowley lowers the delirious angel into the sand as gently as he can and frantically searches the wall. He digs in the sand at its base that may have buried the gate.

There is no gate.

That's when the pleas start.

"C-Crowley... Crowley, please… It's too much! I can't… Please, kill me! Agh! Kill me, dear! Please… Please…"

"Angel… The gate..."

"Oh God! Kill me, Crowley! Aaaah! If you love me, kill me now! Please!"

Crowley's hands are shaking. He looks at the wall without a gate. He looks at Aziraphale. He can feel the hellfire awaiting his command, a smoldering spark eager to be fanned into flames. It would be over soon…

And suddenly it hits him.

6000 years of knowing Aziraphale as the angel of the Eastern Gate, and only now Crowley realizes what that title means. Eden had no gates. Aziraphale does not bear the title because he was assigned to guard the Eastern one. He was assigned it because he _made_ it in the Easten wall, so that Adam and Eve could escape from God's wrath.

He looks closely and he can see it now: a couple of stones at the base of the fortification are loose. He sinks his slender fingers into the gaps and pulls.

A broken sob. "P-Please…"

He's trying not to listen. He promised… but he had no hope when he did. He has hope now. They are so close.

The stone doesn't move. He's not strong enough. It would take a miracle for the stones to fall apart.

"Crowleyyyyy! Kill me, I beg you!"

He can't not listen.

"Crowley..." It sounds defeated, betrayed. It sounds like Aziraphale understands that no relief will come from that side. And he is right.

"No. I'm so sorry. No."

It's a no-miracle zone outside of the wall. But _in_ the wall? He pushes his fingers as far into the gaps as he can. The stones are heavy on his fingers, but don't hurt them. There, he can feel the hellish power flowing through his hands. His last miracle. The one he kept in case it can save the angel. He uses it now.

The stone moves.

Aziraphale doesn't. His eyes roll back in his skull. His body can't take the pain anymore. It's dying. There's no retreat in unconsciousness though: he can only retreat into his essence, and the essence is burning.

A narrow passage through the wall is revealed, one that Aziraphale made with his own hands.

Crowley gathers the angel in his arms. "A moment, angel. Just a moment longer…" he whispers as he carries him where no mortal or immortal set foot for 6000 years.

The air is pleasantly cool, full of sweet smells and the clear sound of water. The lush greenery bears ripe fruits that nobody has tasted for ages. The golden light of the sunset lengthens the shadows.

Crowley doesn't pay attention to anything of that. He's running again, running into the middle of the garden.

_And out of the ground made Jehovah God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil._

Breathless, he reaches the familiar place. The Tree of Knowledge is there, its branches laden with red apples ripe for tempting. He passes it without acknowledgement. He's looking for the other tree now.

The Tree of Life.

The only hope to stop the hellfire, to stop Death from taking his angel. Countering Death with Life, given directly from God.

He stops.

He looks at the Tree.

Gently, he lays Aziraphale on the soft grass under the tree and kisses his burning lips.

Then he falls to his knees and wails - a high, inhuman sound carried across the whole Garden.

The Tree is dead.

Dry, fruitless branches are sticking towards the sky like skeletal fingers.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

Crowley remains motionless for a while, an empty look in his eyes. The hope that had been there before is dead too, buried under the golden irises like an ancient king under a mound of his treasure.

Slowly, the demon stands up.

His eyes are fully serpentine, but so different from the eyes of the snake that tempted Eve in this very place so long ago. They look so much older now, dull and tired. There is a dangerous glint in them, though. It's not hope, but anger and spite as he watches the dead Tree of Life.

"Pa-the-TIC!" he yells. His voice is weak and raspy around the first two syllables, but it gathers strength and carries through all of Eden with the last one.

Leaves rustle with the sound like in a gust of wind.

"See? The others have LEAVES! They have FRUITS! You are growing in the middle of a literal fucking Paradise! You have no EXCUSE! No excuse for being dead!"

The demon is swaying on his feet, but the strength of his anger is obviously much larger than that of his body. It's fully focused on the dry tree in the middle of the Garden.

"You USELESS pathetic thing! You think you can just wither because you have no purpose anymore? _Boo-hoo, the humans are mortal now so guess I'll just die off!_ Is that what a proper tree does? You've got the best soil, all the water and sun you could wish for but what do you do? You DIE!"

All the trees around seem to listen. Even the Tree of Knowledge looks relieved that the words are not directed at it. The dry Tree of Life looks unaffected, though.

"You've just GIVEN UP, that's what you did! Just because nobody needed you for 6000 years, it doesn't mean you'll never be needed again! You are needed now! And what are you doing? You are being fucking dead! Useless!"

The sun is touching the western wall now. The shadow of the dry Tree looks like the fingers of Death reaching for Aziraphale.

"You stupid chunk of firewood! Don't you see he needs you? Don't you see how much pain he's in? He's DYING, you moron! Not like you, though! He's never given up, he always fought, he got us out and he's dying anyway! And it's your FAULT!"

Crowley clenches his teeth. His hands are shaking.

"Your fault!"

His voice is getting raspy again.

"Fucking useless…"

He falls to his knees, the angry scream turning into a sob. "Useless…"

The sun sets behind the wall. The sky is still bright in the West, but Eden falls into shadow.

Crowley hides his face in his palms and leans forward until his elbows touch the ground. His anger is spent. He's weary like he's never been before, not even after the failed Apocalypse.

"P-Please…" he whispers. "I don't ask anything for myself. It's for him. I know you are dead and all, but he… he's the most amazing creature in this world. If someone is worth rising from the dead for, it's him. Please, he really needs you. Saving him is the most noble purpose you could wish for. Trust me..."

He sobs again and looks at Aziraphale.

Hellfire is spreading over the angel's face now. The body is dying and the essence is burning. He can't perceive what's around him anymore and Crowley didn't even get to say farewell. His last words to the angel were some idiotic rambling about how they're almost there. But there's nothing here. Nothing that can save Aziraphale.

The wind rustles in the trees.

Crowley turns away, unable to look at the serpent sigil on the angel's chest. He looks at the Tree.

On the branch closest to him, there is something green.

He gets up, staggering. He comes closer to inspect it.

It's a little bud, opening under his sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I discussed where to end the chapter with my beta - with the dead tree or here, and we both agreed that it might be a nice change to end it with something actually working for Crowley instead of another cliffhanger :) Also it's my birthday, so let's have a hopeful ending! It's going to get better from here, even if slowly.


	20. By the waters of Paradise

Crowley doesn't dare to breathe.

A little flower is growing from the bud. It seems white at first, but at a closer look it is opalescent, shimmering with many colours. The petals unfold, then fade and fall off. The flower turns into a little green fruit. It grows steadily. The fruit is the size of a plum now, and has a glossy sheen. Slowly, it ripens. From green, its skin turns golden.

He reaches out and the fruit falls from the stem into his palm. It's soft and warm like the caress of Aziraphale's hand.

"Angel! Angel!"

He's kneeling at Aziraphale's side. The angel is not breathing and the heat emitting from his body has scorched the grass. The hellfire has a fiendish glow in the growing darkness, making the beloved face look like a painting made with blood. Crowley tries to not pay attention to any of that, pushing aside the idea that it might be too late. He focuses on the fruit in his hand instead. It seems to be pulsing faintly, like a beating heart. Is that a good sign? It has to be.

He carefully pushes his nails into the silky skin and breaks the fruit open. Fine threads of pulp are still connecting the two halves. It is full of thick juice that spills on Crowley's fingers and makes them sticky.

He licks them absently before touching Aziraphale's cheek.

"Angel, I need you to drink something, alright?" he says to Aziraphale despite knowing that his words are not heard.

He pulls the angel's chin down, opening his mouth. He keeps it open with one hand and lowers the fruit to the cracked lips. He squeezes it a little and a few drops of golden juice flow into them.

"I know it would be too much to ask from you to swallow it right now," Crowley says, a bit at a loss at the moment. He watches a drop on Aziraphale's lips, willing it down into his mouth and into his throat. He notices the cracks healing in its path.

"Well, maybe you don't need to. Just don't choke, alright?" But Aziraphale can't choke, can he? He's not breathing.

Crowley squeezes the fruit, causing a steady trickle of juice to flow into the angel's mouth. It ends too soon. At the end he clenches his fist to get every drop of life from the fruit.

He watches Aziraphale's face. It is pale in the darkness. He can't tell any difference - if there is any change, it is too slow. But it seems to him like the red glow is a little weaker than it was a while ago.

He takes the wrung out fruit again. It's just a skin with bits of drying pulp sticking to it. He presses it on the hellfire burn.

There is a hiss. He's not sure if it's just his imagination or a natural reaction of a fire to something wet… or if the snake really hissed when the fruit of life touched it.

But the snake's red glow is fading. Whether it's just the flickering of a dying fire or hissing of a serpent under his hand, that's not important now. It's fading. His vision is blurring as he watches it. He can see writhing coils, coming in and out of focus. He can see fangs and slitted eyes that are watching him from a boiling lake of sulphur. It's all fading.

* * *

The sun is climbing the blue dome of the sky again, creating a mosaic of light and shadow on the pale faces of an angel and a demon as its rays pass through the canopy of leaves and dry branches of the two trees standing next to each other.

Crowley wakes.

He doesn't remember falling asleep. His throat feels dry and his head hurts like a hangover. The surroundings don't help him to make much sense of the situation… until he realizes he's holding a hand.

It's warm.

"Aziraphale!"

Crowley bolts upright and then freezes, as if afraid that a careless movement might shatter the image he's seeing.

Aziraphale's eyes are closed. His skin is red and inflamed in places where the hellfire has burnt, forming an ugly scar in the shape of a serpent on his chest, but that's all that's left as evidence of it. No heat, no glow, no spark of fire. There's just a remnant of the skin from a fruit, burnt to crisp.

Crowley brushes it away and senses movement under his hand. The angel's chest is rising and sinking shallowly. He's breathing.

Crowley breathes as well. It feels like the first breath after a long time of suffocating. He feels wetness in his eyes.

"Angel…" he breathes out, leaning over the beloved face. Relief and gentleness is in that one word, but it's mixed with a deep pity. With regret.

Aziraphale doesn't respond.

He can't. Crowley sees that when he looks at his essence with the senses that can perceive beyond the material layer of the world.

At first, he doesn't see anything.

Then he recognizes it. A little spark - that's all that's left where there used to be a Presence of light as warm and brilliant as the sun. A faint little spark, almost too weak to be noticed.

Tears fall from his eyes. "Angel…"

He reaches for the spark with his essence, but it recoils.

Crowley withdraws immediately. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's alright… I understand you are hurt and scared now. Of course you are. Who wouldn't be? I just wanted to tell you that you are safe now. We are safe."

He doesn't look behind the material layer anymore, doesn't want to disturb the spark. It's enough to know that it's there, that there's nothing hurting it anymore. Instead, he focuses on the tentative bond it has with the body. It wouldn't do, to save Aziraphale's essence just to have it discorporating and returning to Heaven.

The body is in bad shape. It's breathing now and not actively dying, so that's something, at least, but Crowley can see it's a mercy that Aziraphale's essence is too weak to take control of it. Of its senses, specifically. Of the pain.

Crowley is not sure how much power to heal he has at the moment. Demons have always been less proficient in that kind of stuff than angels and the reality of Eden feels strange, somehow. Different from the outside world, maybe because of the no-miracle field around it. He's not sure how miracles actually work here, although he already did one in shifting the stones. He wasn't thinking much about it at the time. He had nothing to lose if the miracle goes wrong (just his hands, maybe). If a healing miracle goes wrong, though…

He can hear the sound of a stream nearby. That might be a good idea for a start, he thinks. Cleaning the wounds so they're not healed with the sand still in them. Normally any dirt would be pushed out by the healing, but it's better to be sure.

He gets up to get some water from the stream. He makes a step.

Then his purposeful and rational thoughts scatter like cards in a failed magic trick.

A shoe was all it took. A random look at a shoe as he put one foot in front of the other.

One moment he is heading towards a stream to bring some water for his wounded angel and the next moment he's between two mirrors dressed in a freshly conjured suit with shiny fake leather shoes, a cup of excellent coffee on the table and angelic blood on his hands.

"Good job," Satan is telling him. "I'm glad you decided to work for me here."

"No! No no no no! I didn't! I'm not working for you!" he stammers, feeling that something is off about this, that there was something else that happened, something that's evading him.

"Oh darling, of course you are…" Satan laughs. His diabolical laughter fills Crowley's mind and drives out all other thoughts.

"N-No..." he manages to stammer once more, but then it's all incoherent sobs.

A gust of wind brushes his hair and something tickles his nose. It's a blade of grass. He blinks in confusion. How can grass grow from a mirror?

There are no mirrors. Eden! He's in Eden! It slowly becomes real again: the grass, the sun high in the sky, the gurgling of the stream… Aziraphale!

"Shit! Aziraphale!"

He turns and sees the angel just a step away. He didn't move, didn't get better or worse. He looks exactly the same as when Crowley decided to get some water. He's breathing shallowly at the same slow pace.

Crowley sighs. "I'm sorry, angel. I should have gotten that water long ago, I know. Fucking useless, that's what I am. I'm going now, don't worry. I'll be back soon and I'll bring water this time. You must be thirsty, too…"

He realizes he's rambling and looks down in shame. Those fucking shoes. He draws a shaky breath as he sees the shoes again. Then he kicks them down from his feet. He rips the suit away, the inferior fabric tearing at the seams easily. The pants, the shirt. Everything is torn and scattered on the grass. He's naked now. It feels more proper for Eden anyway.

He takes a deep breath once that is done. Then he pauses. For the first time, he realizes that his back is healed. There are stains of darkened blood on the back of the torn suit lying somewhere around, but he is not bleeding anymore. It doesn't hurt to move at all. He frowns in confusion, because he knows he didn't heal it. Water first, he reminds himself. He can think about that later.

He finds the stream running over flat stones, shaded by willows. The air is fresh and cool around it, the sound of running water calming.

Crowley tries to conjure a bucket for carrying the water.

Nothing happens.

He frowns and tries with a bottle.

Nothing.

"You've got to be kidding me," he mutters.

A cup.

No.

A glass. A pot. A bowl. A cloth.

No. No. No. No.

"Fine," he snarls.

He grits his teeth and returns to where he left the torn clothes. With a visible disgust, he takes the shirt. He washes it furiously, then soaks it in water and returns to Aziraphale with the dripping fabric. On the way there it hits him. If miracles don't work, he can't heal Aziraphale. He pushes that thought aside, refuses to acknowledge it before he tries. He can't think about it now. He would break down again.

"I'm sorry," he whispers as he kneels at Aziraphale's side. "The conjuring miracles don't work, I need to do it like this. I know Satan miracled the shirt, really sorry for that. I'm going to use it to clean your wounds, though. That's a good use, right? Maybe negates the origin a bit?"

He bites his lips and squeezes the shirt slowly, letting a few drops fall into Aziraphale's mouth.

"Bodies need water, you know? Especially after losing a lot of blood. Better to take care of the body the human way and save your strength for your essence, okay?"

He lets the water drip slowly, willing it to go down smoothly around the intersection of the digestive and breathing tract - a major design flaw of human bodies and now that Aziraphale is breathing, it could cause a problem. Then he washes Aziraphale's face, cleaning the dried blood and sand from it. His fingers tremble over the gash that runs through the cheek and lips, but he forces them to be steady.

"I would carry you to the stream, but I don't want to cause you more pain by that," he continues talking despite knowing that Aziraphale can't hear him. "I don't think you would feel it right now, but I don't want to cause you pain. Never again. I want to soothe it, angel. Will you allow me?"

He knows he won't get an answer and so he gently dabs at one of the burns.

The sand is stuck to it, but Crowley never uses force. His hands are light and patient, removing grain by grain. He returns to the stream every time the shirt gets dirty or too dry.

"I will carry you closer to the water later, deal?" he continues speaking as he works. "When I find the best place and something comfortable you could lie on. The moss and grass here is quite soft and warm actually, as one could expect in Paradise. Kinda like an all-inclusive naturalistic hotel, I guess. You can't really expect the humans to know how to make a bed right after you've created them. But it can be better than this. I will make it so, alright? Once I heal you enough so I can move you without pain. I really hope I can heal you. There, that burn's all clean now. Let's try."

He's tense, half-expecting the miracle to not work, like his attempts at the stream. To his surprise, it does work. The mark of the _Destroyer of Kings_ slowly fades, the charred flesh healing, covered with new skin.

There is no scar.

Crowley slumps with exhaustion, but almost laughs with relief. It works! It works and even better than expected. He was worried the sigils were enchanted and there would be scars, marking the angel with the Antichrist's titles forever. But it seems there will only be one sigil marking him forever, and it won't be the Antichrist's. That makes the smile disappear. He takes a deep breath, focusing on things he can do.

"The healing works great, angel. You are doing so well," he says encouragingly. But then his tone gets apologetic. "I'm just not sure I'll be able to steady my hands after I heal another one. It's a bit exhausting, I fear. I'm so sorry. So, I will clean all of them first, okay? I wish I wouldn't need to make such compromises, angel. I really do. You deserve the best, no compromises. You only have me here, though," he sighs.

He gets up to make a quick trip to the stream again. This time, he remembers to drink a bit, as well. It helps with the exhaustion. A little.

He returns with a clean shirt soaked in cool water and kneels at Aziraphale's side again.

"By the way, somehow my wounds got healed," he speaks as he cleans another burn from sand, as if Aziraphale could hear him. "I thought you might want to know. I did not do that… so I hoped yours might get healed as well, by whatever healed mine. It seems not. I'm sorry." He feels like he's constantly apologizing to the angel. He feels like he's not apologizing enough.

The sun is setting. A full day has passed since they got here and he only remembers about half of it. He's taking his time with the burns and gashes, working on an almost microscopic level if needed, just to not cause more pain than necessary.

"Must have been the fruit, I think," he says as he's almost finished with the last burn. "I was careful with it, tried to save it all for you. But I got some juice on my fingers. I don't remember what I did with that. Might have licked it, I guess. Yes, that might be it… And I'm finished here. You are doing so well. My brave angel. I'll clean your wings now, okay? The front first, and then I'll have to turn you over to get to your back. I'm sorry… I'll get clean water now."

He makes the trip again. He's not counting how many times he did that anymore.

"I'm back, angel. The wings, right? I… oh God… they are a mess… I'm sorry, I'm sorry… Don't worry, I'll be gentle. You won't even feel my touch, I promise."

He still hesitates before touching them, his hand shaking a little. Satan took out all his fury about Crowley's refusal on those wings. And Aziraphale had endured it, clutching a pickpocketed key in his palm without ever revealing it. A true guardian. And what did Crowley do in turn?

The memory threatens to overwhelm him. He can hear the sound of the whip on the wings, he can smell the blood. He knows what comes next.

He looks around, searching for something that looks real, that can stop the memory rising like bile in his throat.

There is the sky. The grass. The trees. Nothing seems real enough. There's Aziraphale. He's real, but he was there, his blood, his screams, his pain - all of that is real, too.

Crowley feels his heart racing and he tries to calm it, to take deep breaths. Deep… breaths. In… and out.

Aziraphale's fingernail is what brings him into focus. It's real and unhurt. It's just dirty. Crowley imagines taking the angel's hands and doing his manicure, like he used to in some other time, other life. Clipping the nails, filing and buffing them. Pushing back the cuticles, rubbing that clover and shea butter scented lotion into the soft skin…

A deep breath… in and out…

"I'm sorry… Getting to it now. The feathers will grow again. It will be fine…"

There's a lot of sand and dried blood.

"I wish there was another fruit," he sighs. "Can't really ask it from the poor tree, though. It did its best."

The trees around rustle their leaves mournfully.

"It stopped the hellfire, that's what matters most, even though it wasn't enough for anything else. Considering how little of it was needed to heal my back, I can't help feeling it's a bit unfair, though."

It's getting dark, but Crowley's serpentine eyes allow him to work as gently and precisely as in the light. Besides the moments when his vision gets blurry with tears. He continues talking to Aziraphale in a very one-sided conversation, telling him about everything he's doing, encouraging him and apologizing over and over.

When he is finished with the inner side of the wings, he gathers the softest moss he can find nearby and covers it with big leaves. Only then does he carefully turn Aziraphale on his belly and lay him on that cot.

He continues working on Aziraphale's back and outer side of his poor wings.

It's close to dawn when he is finally done and tries to gather enough strength for more healing miracles. One of those nasty burns in the crooks of Azirapahle's knees, he decides, because those must hurt with every movement and he doesn't need to turn the angel again to get to them.

He's tired. He knows he's using the last drops of his strength as he wills the burn to disappear.

Yet he extends his hand over another burn.

It starts to tremble. The burn is not healing.

It trembles violently and Crowley is gritting his teeth. The burn is not healing.

Finally he withdraws his hand, defeathed.

"I'm sorry…" he whispers, his words slurred with weariness. "I can't... Yes… damn useless again, I know…"

With those words, he sinks into the grass and falls asleep, covering Aziraphale with his wings.

He wakes around noon.

Heals the other burn.

Falls asleep again.

Next time he wakes, he leaves briefly to get some fruit. He avoids all apples, but manages to find pears. Aziraphale likes pears.

_What is the nutritional value of pear juice?_ Crowley wonders as he assures it goes down smoothly past that tricky part of anatomy.

He eats the rest of the fruit because what else can he do with it and also because he knows that Aziraphale would want him to.

He's rewarded for it by managing to heal two burns and a few lashes on Aziraphale's wings before dropping with weariness again.

He stops trying to keep track of time after a while. Sometimes it's dark when he wakes, sometimes it's daylight. Aziraphale is always unresponsive, his essence still a spark of its former light. Not getting better, but not getting worse, either.

Crowley tries not to think, not to remember. He gets used to the simple cycle, focuses on it. Getting some fruit and water that will sustain the corporation without more strain to the angelic essence. Eating a bit to get a little boost for his own power. Healing as much as he can until he feels dizzy and too exhausted to continue. Sleeping to regain some strength. Over and over.

Until there is nothing left to heal - on the body, at least.


	21. Hotel Eden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are you doing in these strange times? Here is a chapter with almost no dialogue. I hope it won't be too boring.

There is a little cottage in Eden.

It stands on the shore of an azure pool with a little waterfall. It's made of clay bricks and wooden shingles that are held together without nails, just by their interlacing design. The roof is shaded by fruit trees, but the porch opens towards a sunny clearing.

The interior is simple, but cozy. The glass windows let in enough light and the curtains soften it as it falls on the rug in the middle of the room. There is a hearth with a chimney and a shelf with clay pots next to it. There is a table with chairs and another shelf that seems to contain heaps of papyrus, some empty, some covered in writing. There is a closet and a bed with blankets that look like a slightly clumsy attempt at a tartan pattern.

And there is an angel lying in the bed.

His wings are spread over the mattress and his eyes are closed. He looks asleep, his chest rising and sinking slowly, but he doesn't move or change his position at all. His wings are missing most of their feathers. He is pale and a little too thin for the loose pajamas that he is wearing, with the same almost tartan-like pattern as on the blanket.

A demon enters the cottage, carrying a linen bag as if he has just returned from an environmentally conscious food store. An all bio, raw and vegan one, by the looks of it.

"I got more spices, angel," he says. "Would you like the carrot & coriander soup? Or the minty pea one?"

There is no response from the angel.

"Okay then. Minty pea it is, we had the coriander one two weeks ago, didn't we?"

The demon puts the groceries on the table: fruit, vegetables, nuts, leaves, seeds. Everything fresh, with no packaging whatsoever. Then he gets to cooking.

* * *

Crowley found the spot by the pool after he healed Aziraphale and then slept long enough to be able to think coherently. Well, no, actually. He found it after the breakdown he had once he was able to think coherently and it hit him how close he had been to losing Aziraphale. He hurried to the Eastern "gate" then, to put the stones back and mask it as well as possible. He got a little lost on the way there. That's when he discovered the pool.

It was a pleasant spot, sunny but surrounded by trees to give shade. The ground was warmed by the sun, the air was fresh but not cold and the view was just lovely. After closing the hole in the wall (making him feel much safer) and checking on Aziraphale (no change there), he prepared another bed of moss and leaves in that place, just where he could control whether the spot was in sunlight or in shadow by moving a few branches. He brought Aziraphale there and laid him down. Had another breakdown when he saw how angry and red the snake-shaped scar on the angel's pale chest was in the light of the sun in its zenith. All the other scars were gone, but he could not heal that one, no matter how hard he tried.

He wished for a blanket to cover it. The angel would be more comfortable lying under a blanket, too. And bed sheets and mattress… and speaking about it, a bed. And some shelter as well. Crowley tried to create the blanket first. No success. He could heal or manipulate things that already were in Eden, but not create new ones.

And so he started to inventory the resources of Eden, never leaving Aziraphale for more than two hours. There were plants and mushrooms. All plants he remembered from the rest of Earth, and even some extra. No animals, though. It seemed that the animals shared the fate of humans and were driven out of Eden - probably because of their new dietary habits. No place for things like food chains in Paradise. No place for rot and death, either. That was making him a little calmer when leaving Aziraphale, actually. There were no fallen leaves on the ground, no dead trees (with just that one ironic exception). The plants bore fruits and flowers at the same time and the fruits never fell down from the branches. Only when he picked one, a new fruit grew almost immediately in its place, without any involvement of bees or other means of pollination. It seemed that plants were not allowed sex here.

He found both linen and cotton plants. They still refused to magically transform into cloth, no matter how much he yelled at them. He had a hard time remembering how the humans did it to go from a plant to something that could be worn as a fashion statement. Cotton seemed easier to work with - it already had the fluffy parts ready. He started with those. Cleaning them from seeds and dirt was manipulating something that was already there, so he was able to do it with a miracle. From that point, he was able to miracle yarn, since it was just a matter of twisting and stretching the little threads of fluff. But going from there to cloth required knowing how to intertwine the yarn together. That needed him to remember all the times he saw a loom and the people working it. After several failed attempts, he figured it out and voilá, he had cloth! But it wasn't enough for a blanket, unless he wanted a blanket for a mouse. At least he knew it worked.

He started gathering more cotton, which meant picking the few heads that he found, waiting for a moment until they grew again, picking them again and so on. He was getting impatient as he was already away from Aziraphale for a longer time than he was comfortable with. Annoyed, he tried a shortcut - and this time, he was able to miracle a cloth from nothing!

That's how he realized what was the matter with Eden's restrictions on miracles. The no-miracle field around prevented him from bringing any object from the outside world to it, that much was clear. Inside, miracles actually worked just fine, but the reality here was 6000 years behind the rest of the world. To test the theory, he tried to miracle a stone into existence. Yup. There it was, a nice round stone, quite suitable for hitting an Archangel or two in the head. But when he asked for a blanket, the reality of Eden just didn't know what he wanted. He had to show it how it was made, step by step, to define it, and then he was able to materialize it.

He had gotten to defining cotton cloth so far. Some manipulation with a thread, a stuffing of raw cleaned cotton fluff, and he had the definition of a blanket and a lot of plans to keep himself busy. That was good. When he was busy, working to ensure all the comfort he could to his angel, memories were less likely to return. Guilt was less likely to hit him in the gut when he was in the middle of some important project, like finding out what plants can be used as dyes to make a tartan pattern.

Sometimes the memories did return and the guilt hit him, still.

Between that, he made a bed with blankets and everything. Wood was a bit tricky to work with at first, as there was no dead and dry wood here (with that one ironic exception again). In this case, a bit of yelling at the trees was actually effective. They agreed, for their own good, to grow some extra branches and withdraw the sap from them. He had to miracle the stone tools to cut them down and define what he meant by wood as a material.

Metal proved impossible to miracle. Aziraphale did have a sword here, long ago. Crowley tried to use that somehow, but it seemed it didn't work when the sword wasn't here anymore. There was some ore in the ground under Eden, but he knew that getting pure metal from it wouldn't be possible without destroying parts of the land. He contented himself with stone tools.

Slowly, the little cottage by the pool took shape. Crowley put wards on it, to alert him in case of danger, although it seemed that there was no possible danger to them in Eden. But most of all, they were supposed to alert him if Aziraphale woke. He still thought it could be at any moment. But as the days passed and turned into months, he stopped thinking about it much. He stopped counting them, too. But once the wards were in place, he became more comfortable with leaving for a longer time and taking on bigger tasks, not worried anymore that Aziraphale would wake alone in a strange place he wouldn't recognize.

One of the bigger tasks was making sure they were as safe as possible in their private paradise. He found the place with loose stones in the wall again and strengthened it with mortar from the inside. Then he made a long rope ladder, flew to the top of the wall and fastened it there. The no-flight zone started right beyond the wall, so he used the ladder to climb down and worked for several hours to pile sand in front of the weak spot. He was only content when it was fully concealed.

Once the basic things were done, he worked on improving everything in the cottage from the first makeshift version. He made a closet and filled it with his best attempts at clothes that Aziraphale might like. He also made new clothes for himself - just a loose tunic with simple pants. He wanted them black, but couldn't get it quite right with the dyes from oak bark, walnuts and indigo. He ended with some weird shade of grey that he contented himself with in the end. The suit miracled by Satan was burnt as soon as he learnt to make cloth and found the time for it.

Not everything went as smoothly, though. Sometimes he got frustrated with his inability to create something basic because he didn't know how it was actually done the human way. Shoes, for example. He couldn't make them from leather, since there was none. He tried it from other materials, but couldn't make them hold together properly and couldn't even get the shape of the cut right. He had his snake scales, but it bugged him that Aziraphale would have to walk barefoot when he woke.

He felt like a failure. He couldn't get anything right for his angel. No wonder Aziraphale wasn't waking.

When those thoughts faded a bit, he resolved to learn weaving the tartan pattern Aziraphale used to wear to make up for it. He managed it only partially. It was a pattern and it resembled tartan. To avoid another breakdown, he decided to try again later and took on another big project instead. The angel loved reading, he thought and started working on filling Aziraphale's bookshelf. The tries for paper were rather frustrating too - he couldn't figure out the proper glue that would keep the cellulose threads together. He was getting a bit better at avoiding breakdowns as time passed: papyrus was easier to work with and he had some practice from Egypt already, so he used that instead.

Making ink from oak bark was more of Aziraphale's domain while he had been acting as a monk in a medieval scriptorium, but Crowley had watched him doing it a few times. It was mostly a matter of figuring out how to get green vitriol (now called ferrous sulphate) from one of the hot sulphurous springs by the Northern wall. Oak bark was easy to find, so the rest wasn't that hard anymore. He wasn't a complete failure. Wahoo.

Since then he had dedicated some time each day to writing down all poems and plays he remembered. He regretted that he had not memorized any of Aziraphale's favourite novels. He did not want to write down the Little Prince.

Once there was a hearth in the cottage and the basic clay pots and kitchen utensils, he started cooking for Aziraphale instead of giving him fruit juice every time, too. After another breakdown, that is. That time it was the sight of Aziraphale being so close to fire that did it for him. He knew it was just a regular fire that he lit easily like any demon could, but the sight of flames and smell of smoke was too much for him. It took him a few days to get used to it and actually start cooking. It was becoming visible that the angel was losing weight by then, and that made him overcome his fear. That and moving the bed across the room, as far from the hearth as possible, which helped just a little bit.

What he regretted regularly was not having his phone here. Not that it would have been any use without any internet connection. It was most unlikely that there was any signal or even a _wifi: eden _with _password: guest_ here. He was annoyed that he couldn't google the recipes for vegan soups, download illegal ebooks of the novels he wanted to copy for Aziraphale or look up the patterns for shoes. Then he remembered that the price for that was being safe here and he was a bit less annoyed.

And Aziraphale still didn't wake.

Crowley had been over the scenario a thousand times in his head. He considered every reaction that Aziraphale could have to seeing him, every word that he was going to say to the angel. The more he played those scenarios out in his mind, the more he felt that it might be better if Aziraphale didn't see him right after waking. He could remember his closed eyes, back in the desert. The angel purposely kept his eyes closed after he woke in Crowley's presence. As if he knew that seeing Crowley at that moment would make him afraid.

_You hurt him! You almost killed him! Of course he is afraid of you!_ a nagging voice in his mind accused every time he got to that place in his thoughts. _Even if he doesn't want to be and doesn't want to show it, deep down he is afraid!_

And so he worked on making sure that the angel had everything he needs even if he wouldn't want to see Crowley. He left instructions everywhere, explaining what was where and how the miracles worked.

He made storage for groceries and labeled every clay jar. He discovered he enjoyed making clay jars in the process. He did it the human way, with a pottery wheel. It was relaxing. He didn't have to think about anything else while working on it.

He did all of that, and Aziraphale was still not waking.

The spark of angelic essence got a little stronger, but did not seem to improve beyond that.

The nagging voice changed its rhetoric then. _What if he never wakes?_ it asked. _What if instead of killing him, you hurt his essence so much that it will never come out again? He begged you to kill him, didn't he? And you didn't, you made him endure unbearable agony just so you could have him, you selfish demon."_

* * *

"The soup is ready, angel," Crowley says softly, ignoring the voice. "And there's blackberry smoothie as a dessert."

He helps the unresponsive body to take in the liquid nourishment.

"I hope you liked that," he says later, when he has used a miracle to clean the dishes. "Maybe some strawberry juice to soften the smoothie next time, what do you think? And what do you feel up to now? Should I do your manicure again?"

He takes fine sandpaper and a jar with coconut butter mixed with jojoba oil. Without metal, he can't make scissors, but sandpaper (or rather sandpapyrus) is enough to file the nails. They don't grow, anyway.

As Crowley is massaging the lotion into his fingers, Aziraphale opens his eyes.


	22. Come back to your rose

It is quiet. An angelic spark is floating in a not-space and not-time, in the all-containing void reminiscent of the form of existence before time and space were created. It's not the whole of existence packed into that void, though. It's just the one immortal essence, packed so tightly into itself that it seems impossible to unwind.

It does not want to unwind itself, either. Outside, there was fire and pain. It remembers the pain. It is all it remembers - pain consuming every fibre of its being, burning every thought and memory away. There is only a faint idea of existing before the pain, for a short time. Then, for what felt like eons, there was only the feeling of burning alive in the fiery heart of timeless evil, in an all-consuming unclean fire.

There is no fire now, but the spark is weary. It only wishes to rest in the soothing nothingness. Like a little bird with rain-soaked feathers finding its nest. Like a lost child in the gentle presence of its Mother.

It can feel Her now, silent but clear in its soul as She has always been. It had been so easy to let the connection drown in the noise of the outside world. But it is quiet here. It is quiet and the angelic spark is content, cradled in Her arms like in the not-time before Creation when all seeds of consciousness had been contained within Her, unaware of their own selves.

It remembers a chasm opening, a darkness pulling down its light. It did not fall into the darkness because of that connection. It could not fall. It could only burn, and burn it did. Not anymore, though. Now it is safe. Now nothing hurts. Now it is peaceful and cozy. But…

There's something missing.

A hint of confusion ripples through the spark. How could there be something missing in Her presence? It manages to ignore the feeling for some time, letting the waves of peace wash it away.

It doesn't go away completely, though. It's still there, a weak nagging feeling that there should be something else here and it isn't.

The spark becomes unrestful. It's searching for something and doesn't know what it is. The spark gets more and more frantic as it becomes clear that whatever is missing, it can't be found within. But outside, there is pain. There is fire. It doesn't want to leave the calm haven and face the storm again.

When it makes a decision, it's a relief. It can enjoy the peace again and silence its unrest. It stays for a while longer and soaks in the calm, the comfortable weightlessness of this state of being, knowing it will not last. It gathers all its courage and determination.

Then it uncoils, reaching out.

The matter is coarse and heavy. Crumbs of being condense into particles that form atoms, the atoms cluster in molecules. It weighs the essence down, all of that stickiness and denseness and clutter.

The body it finds itself in is too big, too material. The essence is too weak and can't fill it all. The sensations are too much in their intensity, but too narrow in their scope, like the burn of sunrays, focused by a lens. The cloth against the skin feels rough and heavy. Parts of the body feel too hot and parts too cold. The vibrations of the air as some material surfaces in the distance are rubbed together are too loud and the gravity is almost unbearable in its downward pull. There's something wrong with the skin on the chest, especially. It feels too tight, too sensitive, too stiff. It hurts. The essence withdraws a little, considering whether to retreat back into the calm and never come out again.

But there are some sensations that, despite being strong, are not unpleasant. There's something in the corporation's mouth and the fireworks of taste feel fresh and earthy at the same time. It's slowly moving down, spreading satisfying fullness in its path. There is also a sound that is louder than the annoying distant vibrations, but much more… something. It's hard to tell why, but it makes the essence feel safe. It feels right.

Then a touch on the corporation's hand makes all the other sensations fade into the background. It's overwhelming, almost too much to deal with. But it's also warm and gentle and caring. It's like a piece of puzzle slipping into its place, it's like it should be. The presence of that touch immediately becomes the norm, its absence deviation. The essence does not want to retreat anymore. It would even endure more pain just to stay here because it is sure now that it found what it was missing.

It wants to reach out but it can't control most of the body parts yet. They are too heavy. Eyelids seem easiest to move, but it still takes a monumental effort.

The light is blinding.

The touch withdraws, leaving an empty feeling in its wake. The essence would like to voice its distress at that, but hasn't quite figured out how yet.

As the light becomes more bearable, a creature comes into focus. It feels like the most beautiful thing in existence.

The creature makes a sound, similar to those that felt so right before. The sound stirs something. It has _meaning_.

Some resistance gives up and a memory floats into the essence from the brain of the corporation it's inhabiting. It's just a little, simple memory, but there is a promise in it. It says that all the memories that the essence lost in the infernal fire have been imprinted there, in the complicated connections between neurons. Maybe they could tell why the fire had been there… no. It doesn't want to know. It's scared of that memory coming back. It would just like to know why it feels so nice, to look at the creature with obsidian-like scales.

"Aziraphale…"

Thanks to the memory, the sound connects with meaning. _Aziraphale_. _He is_ _Aziraphale_. He relaxes in the body a little as he gets a faint feeling of familiarity with it. This body belongs to Aziraphale, to him.

There are more sounds, but no meaning comes to him with them. It is nice to listen to them, though. He could listen to them all the time.

A question sounds in the slightly hissing voice. He doesn't know how to react to it and hasn't quite figured out the vocal cords yet, either. It seems to sadden the beautiful creature and that, in turn, saddens Aziraphale.

The creature looks unsure. It retreats a bit, as if afraid of intruding. It doesn't make more sounds, either. He wants to call it back, but all that comes out of his throat is a low whimper.

It seems to be taken the wrong way. The creature withdraws even further.

He stops himself from making another whimper, afraid that it will leave completely. He goes still and so does the creature. He uses the time to take inventory of his body, now that it feels a bit better fitting, although still too heavy to be moved. A finger trembles almost imperceptibly as he tries to raise it. He almost gives up further tries with muscle control, when he discovers a movement that comes easily. A smile.

He smiles and that seems to help. The creature relaxes a little. It speaks again.

He smiles again.

That wasn't the expected reaction, it seems. It saddened the creature again, for some reason. Maybe it figured out that he doesn't understand… that he doesn't remember. He wants to say that he is sorry. The apology forms at the back of his throat, but he's not able to put it into words.

The creature hisses something and moves to leave.

"Stay..." he rasps, surprising himself. The sound is weak, but the snake - his brain now supplies the proper word to name the wonderful creature - stops immediately. It hesitates a bit and then it slithers closer.

Aziraphale admires the grace of its movement. He sighs, feeling too weak to speak or move again, but that's all right. The snake is here.

"You didn't understand me, did you?" it asks gently.

For some reason, Aziraphale understands now, the words connecting with their meanings easily.

It seems that the snake can sense some confusion from him or see it in his expression. "I've been speaking English," it says. "My bad. But you understand Enochian, right? Of course you do, you are an angel. That's the only thing they could not take from you… Oh, forget it," it adds quickly. "Don't think about it. You don't remember and that's a good thing."

Aziraphale can hear the sadness in the snake's voice again. He wants to comfort it, but doesn't know how. He wants to remember more about this lovely creature, but feels that the memories on the path there would hurt too much. He can't face such a hurt now. He is too weak, too weary.

"Right… Ssso I get it that you must be damn tired and it'ss hard to move."

_Is the snake reading his thoughts?_ he wonders.

"Blinking is all right, though? I just need to know… the boundariesss. I don't want to hurt you in any way. Can you blink as a yes?"

Blink.

"Good. And two blinks will be a no."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

"Well… that works too, I guesss. So rolling eyes is a no?"

Blink. Aziraphale doesn't even remember where he knows the snake from, but he is getting a strong feeling that if two blinks were a no, the snake would watch him for a long time after blinking once, all anxious whether a second blink is coming. Better stop that right at the beginning.

"Alright, ssso. Should I sssstay in the room?"

Blink.

"Sssshould I… ssstay where I am?"

A roll of eyes.

"Farther?"

A roll of eyes.

The snake hesitates. "Clossser?" it asks uncertainly.

Blink.

It slithers the distance of a step towards Aziraphale. "Here?"

A roll of eyes.

It retreats half a step. "Here?"

A roll of eyes accompanied by a groan.

"You mean that… Isss it all right if I… touch you?"

Blink. Blink. Blink.

"Wait. Is that a no?"

_God give me strength_. A groan. A roll of eyes.

"That was a no to the first question? No, sorry, not going to make you exert more. I just… all right. I'm coming closer now. Just roll your eyes if you want me to stop and I will."

A weary blink.

Slowly, the snake comes so close that he could touch it if he could just move his hand. It feels so tempting, but his essence is still too weak to move it.

Instead, the snake's snout lowers to his hand. The movement is very slow and careful, giving him the chance to protest. He blinks instead and in the next moment can feel the smooth scales brushing his fingers. It feels like an empty place that is filled again with that touch. He sighs contentedly.

Encouraged, the snake leans closer, moving along Aziraphale's hand until its head rests next to the angel's cheek and its body coils along his wing.

Aziraphale smiles. Feeling safe and whole again, he falls asleep.

Snakes do not usually weep. This one does.


	23. The elephant in the snake

Aziraphale is getting stronger. He's able to stay awake for a few hours at once and talking doesn't exhaust him so much anymore. His wings are hidden now, tucked away safely in the ethereal plane where they can recover without additional strain of material form. His essence is still very weak, but is filling most of his body, even if it has to stretch thinly to do that.

There are some better moments now.

"Thisss isss black tea," the snake explains. "It's from the sssame plant as the green one, but the leaves need to be crushed and left in the air for some time. It's not asss good as wine, but it doesn't take that long to make."

"Wine, yes. You told me about wine. It's in the barrel in the basement of the storage room, right? But not ready yet."

"That'sss right. You remember well," the snake says and Aziraphale beams.

_You are so beautiful when you smile. So charming, just discovering the world like a child. And like a child you love being praised, don't you? You deserve it, every bit of it. Don't let the memories tell you otherwise, when they come back._

"Wine can't be rushed, at least for the firssst time," he continues. "Until then, we have tea. It's made like thissss."

He shows Aziraphale how he heats the water and steeps the leaves in it. Then he takes a wooden spoon into his tail and without thinking, adds two spoons of sugar, just like the angel likes. "Do you remember what sugar is made from?"

Aziraphale thinks for a moment. "The cane?"

"Yes, from sssugar cane. Wonderful, angel. And then almond milk. I hope you'll like it, we don't have the usual milk that you… oh, never mind that. It just needs to cool down a bit. You either wait or help it a bit with a miracle, like thisss."

"I can't do miracles, demon."

_Demon. Yes, I am a demon. That's all you need to know now, angel. That's what I told you when you asked for my name, so I don't know why it still stings to hear it. I wanted you to know what I am, I wanted you to know that we are opposites. But I can see that you are not bothered by that. My dear angel. I don't know why I thought you would. You never minded it, since our first meeting here. You say that word in the same tone I call you 'angel' with. I want to enjoy it while I can, even though I long to hear my true name from your lips. I don't want to awaken the fear in your eyes with that name and my human face. I will stay a serpent and just demon as long as it takes you to remember._

"Jussst because you are weak now. As you get stronger, they will come back to you, you will see," Crowley says encouragingly.

_I don't want you to depend on me. I want you to be free in your decisions._

The snake's tail winds around the cup and puts it into Aziraphale's hands. "Here, try it."

The fingers curl around the warmth seeping through the clay. Aziraphale had been very sensitive to any temperature differences in the first days, but now he already finds warmth pleasant.

Crowley smiles at that - inwardly, of course, because the snake face is not too expressive. He supports the angel in a half-sitting position with the coils of his body and guides the cup to his lips, because Aziraphale is not strong enough to lift it.

Aziraphale takes a gulp. Then he takes another one and closes his eyes. "Oh demon, that's delightful!"

"I know, right?"

"Would you like some?"

_Oh angel, you are too kind. I don't deserve you being kind to me._

"No, thank you. If I want tea, I can make it by miracle."

"Couldn't you miracle this one, too?"

"I thought you would like it better this way. Sometimes it just doesn't feel the sssame, you know? And to be able to miracle it, you need to know how it's made. Do you remember what I told you about the miracles here? "

"I do."

"Good angel."

Aziraphale beams.

* * *

There are some worse moments.

"Have you been ssscratching it, angel?"

"No."

_A liar and a bit of a bastard, are we? Oh my heart, hold still._

"Alright, but it'sss bleeding again. I will get the aloe balm."

Aziraphale whimpers. "Don't go…"

The snake doesn't. He comes closer, sad and comforting. "Does it hurt?"

Aziraphale nods. "And itches," he pouts, on the verge of tears.

_Oh angel… Nobody has told you yet to suppress what you feel, did they? I wish it could stay that way, but you will remember. I hope it won't be too soon. I can sense the memories lodged in your brain, lurking in the shadows and waiting for their time. I hope you get stronger before they assault you. It wouldn't be fair now, when you have to rely on me._

"The balm will soothe that. I will not leave, don't worry. I'll just miracle it here, okay?"

"Okay," Aziraphale says in a small voice.

Crowley summons the little jar and uses his tail instead of fingers to scoop up the balm. Most of the things human hands can do, he can get around with some creativity and miracles.

The breath hitches between his fangs as his snake tail traces the sigil burnt into Aziraphale's chest. The sigil looks like a snake, too. An angry, possessive snake.

_When will you make the connection, angel? Yes, that's me. It's me who's hurting you, makes your skin itch and bleed._

Carefully, he spreads the balm on the inflamed scar and over the red traces of nails.

_I understand if you want to scratch it out of your body. I really do. But I don't want you to hurt yourself. I fear you are stuck with it forever. Because of me…_

Aziraphale whimpers in pain as the snake's tail touches an especially sore spot.

"S-sssory… Sssso s-s-sorry…"

_I'm hurting you. I'm hurting you. I'm hurting you. I'm killing you. Oh God, it's hellfire. I'm killing you!_

He sees the reflection of his own eyes in a mirror, yellow and demonic. He smells burnt flesh. It makes him sick. He can't breathe. He wants to drop the branding iron he is holding, wants to get away from there.

_I'm hurting you! I'm hurting you! I'm hurting you!_

He's outside, on the other side of the pool, and doesn't know how he got there. The waterfall rumbles nearby, spraying his scales with a fine cool mist. It takes a while to remember what happened. But when he does...

_Oh shit! Fuck! Aziraphale!_

Lightning-fast, he uncoils and shoots into the pool like an arrow, swimming to the other side as fast as he can. His undulating body sends ripples across the water. The cold clears his mind and suppresses memories of fire, leaving just a gaping, aching hole of worry and guilt.

He slithers out on the bank and slips through the door, slightly ajar.

"Aziraphale!"

He stops, taking in the scene in front of him. The angel is crumpled on the floor, sobbing.

_Oh no. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Anthony J. Crowley, you messed up. You are a failure. Look at him. You totally messed up. Fuck._

"Aziraphale? Angel, did you hurt yourssself? Aziraphale, pleassse..."

Hearing the familiar hissing voice, Aziraphale sobs even harder, but then forces himself to stop. He swallows the sobs, arranges his features into a mask. He's not too successful in it. He manages to shake his head negatively, but the sobs still rumble under the surface and his face is too open to hide his distress.

_No no no no no… Don't do that angel. Not for me. Not for anyone, but especially not for me. Don't hide, please. Don't pretend that all is well when you are hurting inside. You've spent too long doing that…_

"Angel, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to…" and "Demon, please… I'm sorry…" they speak at the same time.

"No, no," Crowley says, scales rustling as he is coiling his body in nervous loops. "Not your fault. Mine. Pleassse look at me, Aziraphale. You didn't do anything wrong."

Aziraphale does look at him, almost like moving against his will.

_Damn. That wasn't an order. Don't follow it like an order. Stupid… So stupid from me._

"It's all right," he tries to reassure the angel. "It really is. Let me help you back to the bed, okay? Are you sure you didn't hit yourself?"

Aziraphale's lip wobbles. He tries to blink the tears away, but they roll down his cheeks. "N-No… It's not. Not all right. I c-can see it…"

_Shit. Do you have to be that perceptive?_

The snake slithers closer, avoiding the sight of the scar on Aziraphale's chest. He watches for any sign of distress before he touches the pale skin, but it seems that his touch is still welcome. More than welcome. Aziraphale leans into it, tears falling from his eyes freely now. Crowley licks them with his forked tongue. They taste like a dying star.

"It'ssss not your fault, angel. I'm sssorry I made you think that. You did nothing wrong."

Aziraphale weeps even harder.

Crowley conjures a handkerchief and holds it to Aziraphale's nose with a minor miracle.

"Blow," he says.

Aziraphale does that. "I lied to you!" he wails even before the handkerchief is removed. "I… I scratched it!"

_Oh, angel. That's what you think you did wrong? Oh love…_

"That's all right, Aziraphale. Really. You don't have to be afraid to tell me the truth, but if you choose to lie, I don't mind it. Hey, I'm a demon. Lying is fine in my book. Sometimes you just… uh... don't feel like explaining yourself, so you tell a lie that doesn't need an explanation. No problem with that. Whatever makes you feel better."

_I fell in love with you when you lied to God. How could I be angry with you for a little lie?_

Aziraphale watches him intently. There can't be much to see in the snake face, but gradually, his tears cease. "What's wrong, then?" he asks, and there's something very vulnerable in his voice.

_That concern in your eyes. It feels like a white wing shielding me from the first rain. Not knowing if you did the good thing, but doing it anyway._

Crowley licks the traces of tears on his cheeks. "Pleassse, don't ask. I don't want to lie to you," he whispers. "I just want you to know that you didn't do anything wrong. It's me, all me. And now you need to get back on the bed. Did you fall because you wanted to go after me?"

"I… I was worried. You had been gone for a long time," Aziraphale says as the strong coils wrap around him and lift him onto the bed, his expression open and honest.

Crowley can still feel the shivers running along the angel's spine.

"You really didn't hit anything?" he asks for the third time, patiently.

"No. But you are hurting and I don't know why. I will not ask if you don't want to talk about it, but I don't want you to hurt. I'd like to know what to avoid. Was it the scratching? I won't do it again, I promise…"

_Oh bless it, you're not going to let me change the topic that easily, are you?_

"It's fine. I know it itches and it's hard to resist. I would be glad if you do, but don't promise. And I can't promise this won't happen again. It's hard to tell what to avoid, really. Don't worry about it, okay? And don't try to follow if it happens. I will come back. I'll always come back, as long as you want me to. That I can promise."

"Okay," Aziraphale says tiredly, accepting the answer. "I just wish I could remember…"

"Don't. You will eventually, but don't try to force it."

"But why?"

"You might remember how annoying I am and kick me out of the house."

Aziraphale chuckles, but the concern in his eyes doesn't go away.

_Oh angel. You don't even remember me and I'm falling in love with you all over again. But when you remember me… will you still love me, after what I did?_

* * *

Some moments start badly, but turn out nice, in the end.

The angel is asleep. He still sleeps a lot, but can already get out of the bed briefly, even manage a little walk around the pool.

Crowley watches him for a moment, making sure that his sleep is peaceful. Then he slips out of the cottage and slithers away along the path. There have been no paths in Eden when they arrived here. He wonders how long ago that was and concludes he has no idea. The moonlight paints the night in greyscale, but it's not too different from how Crowley sees in his snake form during the day. It's getting to be too much. Too much to hide, too much to suppress. He feels he must get away, even for a little while. Away from the cottage, away from _demon_, away from _snake_.

Away from Aziraphale. That stings most, that he feels the need to get away from Aziraphale.

_Oh angel… I'm so sorry you have to be stuck with such a stupid wreck who can't get a hold of himself. Who can't even be there for you properly… who's constantly tense and afraid that he'll have another fucking breakdown, or that you remember… or don't remember. I shouldn't be feeling relieved to get away from it for a while. What kind of monster am I, to feel relieved to be away from you when you need me?_

He stops near the base of the cliff that towers above the largest pool. He waits and listens. But of course the only sound is the water and the wind in the trees. It's just a habit, making sure he's not disturbed.

He takes a deep breath and changes his form. It's hard at first. For a terrible moment, he is stuck in some nightmarish shape in-between. He has been in the snake form for too long. He has been getting cravings for devouring furry things whole and then sleeping for a week straight. But there are no furry things in Eden and he can't afford to sleep for a week and leave Aziraphale alone. And so he sneaks out at night to a place where Aziraphale can't see him, and tries to change. The form resists.

_A monster. A monster._

Something finally yields and he changes into his preferred form. It's a human one, with lanky limbs and fiery hair, and it finally manages to get rid of the scales and grow those limbs in proper proportions.

He sighs with relief.

He takes a few unsteady steps, finding his balance. He almost plants his face into the soil with the third step, but fourth and fifth are a good recovery of his dignity. To make him look less like a newborn foal and more like a cool demon, he miracles his grey tunic to rise on the dignity scale a bit more.

With his limbs more under control, he kneels at the pool and splashes cold water on his face. Then he digs his fingers into the soil, bending and straightening them again. He can still feel the phantom pain and stiffness in his tail. Snake tails did not evolve for the fine motions that he is forcing it to do. It is nice to have fingers again. Fingers that once used to caress white feathers. Fingers that held a branding iron heated in hellfire. For a long time, he stays there, looking at them.

_I've done something terrible, angel. Something so terrible, and you don't remember it. I can't look into your eyes, so trusting and innocent, not remembering what I have done. A part of me selfishly wants you to never remember. Or would it be unselfish, to trade 6000 years worth of memories of me for the mercy of not remembering what happened between the mirrors? I don't know anymore. I don't know, angel…_

"Demon?"

"Ngk!" Crowley jumps a few inches up into the air without changing his position, like a child startled while doing something forbidden.

He lands, but his heart stays up there, beating in his throat as he is trying to gather his bearings enough for a change of form.

Aziraphale is there, watching him.

Aziraphale is there, seeing him.

Aziraphale is there, staggering.

Before he can think of it, he is at the angel's side, supporting him.

"What were you thinking, coming all the way here? You are not strong enough to walk alone at night! You… You..."

He's in his human form.

_Shit. Oh no. Please, not yet. Not now. Don't remember yet. Just a little longer…_

"Sorry… I'm sorry…" Aziraphale whispers on the verge of tears, sinking into his hands. "I was worried…"

The concern just adds to Crowley's guilt. His heart is breaking under that weight. But there is no fear in the angel's eyes, no recognition. It almost feels like he didn't notice the change at all.

"Shhh, it's all right. I told you I'll always come back, didn't I?"

"Y-Yes… I'm sorry, demon… So sorry for intruding… I woke and you weren't there and… and…"

_Still a demon, then. Well, obviously not an aardvark, but no 'Crowley', either. Good, that's good… Just a little longer..._

"No, no, it's all right." Crowley caresses white hair with his fingers. Holding the angel in his hands. Hands. Fingers. It feels so nice. It's a feeling that wouldn't let him forget how to change into a form with hands and fingers.

_Let me hold you just a little longer, before the memories tear us apart..._

"You are so pretty," Aziraphale murmurs into his shoulder, exhausted by the long walk. "I wish I could be so pretty."

"You are, angel. Of course you are."

* * *

Some moments start nice, but...

It is dark outside and the fire casts a warm glow across the room. It is contained within the fireplace, surrounded by stones and a trough filled with water, for good measure. It makes the room feel cozy, reminding Crowley of the fires he shared with Aziraphale over the millenia. Campfires, fireplaces in mead halls, hearths, flames in a bombed church… Not hellfire. The colour of the flames is more earthy, the sound of cracking logs much friendlier than the hungry roar of hellfire. Only someone really stupid could mistake those two. It would have to be a total moron.

Crowley presses his lips together, pushing those thoughts aside. He's become a master in pushing thoughts aside. There are so many thoughts heaping at the side that they threaten to topple at any moment. But this is a nice moment. He doesn't allow those thoughts to ruin it.

Aziraphale's hair is soft under his fingers, his slightly damp curls still smelling of soap.

As they were taking a walk yesterday, Crowley found soap nuts growing near the stream. He made a big wooden bathtub over the evening and the morning of the next day, and just as it was getting dark, the bath was ready, steam rising from heated water and bubbles frothing on its surface.

Aziraphale looked so content in the bath. And he looks so content now, as Crowley is brushing his hair and massaging his scalp. It has become a bit of an obsession to Crowley - the pleasant touches, all the ways he can make the angel feel good by caring for his body.

The cosmetic industry was not really his idea, despite claiming credit for it. The idea to cement into people's heads that you have to look a certain way to be considered a worthy person and then sell products that will make you look that way was all humans'. But he did some research on it when claiming it, and found that some parts had an appeal. Those that allow people to look how _they_ wanted. And then there were those that could be connected with a caring touch. With relaxing and indulgence.

Aziraphale makes a pleased sound deep in his throat and Crowley marvels at the feeling of his fingers bringing pleasure instead of pain. He can't get enough of it. He feels like there will never be enough of it to make up for the pain he caused.

_C-Crowley... Crowley, please… It's too much! I can't… Please, kill me! Agh! Kill me, dear! Please… Please…_

Chocolate. He was so proud when he figured out how to make it without proper milk. He defined a lot of different kinds of chocolate to the reality of Eden, so when he now calls for a praline with salty caramel filling, it obeys.

"Open your mouth," he whispers and Aziraphale obeys without opening his eyes. So much trust...

Aziraphale's lips close around the praline.

"Mhm," he hums appreciatively as he turns it around with his tongue and savours the taste.

Crowley takes in that blissful expression like a junkie taking a hit. It's never enough. He needs more and more. But no amount of it can erase the memories.

_Oh God! Kill me, Crowley! Aaaah! If you love me, kill me now! Please!_

His fingers are steady in Aziraphale's hair, never trembling. He has gotten very good at pushing that voice into a corner of his mind where it can't affect anything he does.

Aziraphale is relaxed, his aura getting stronger in contentment. His essence is not as strong as it used to be yet, but it is slowly getting there.

Crowley miracles another praline, with strawberry filling this time. But before he can put it into Aziraphale's mouth, he feels a sudden tension under his fingers.

"Angel?" he asks quietly. "What's wrong?"

Aziraphale shivers. He opens his mouth, but closes it again like suppressing a scream. His eyes are still closed, too. They are closed so firmly that they make a deep wrinkle at the root of his nose.

The breath catches in Crowley's throat. He doesn't dare to say anything more, doesn't dare to move.

Aziraphale finally opens his eyes, scared and confused.

"Crowley?" he asks hoarsely.

But there's just an open door and a tip of a snake tail disappearing into the night.


	24. Remembering

Aziraphale remembers. He wishes it had come gradually, one memory at a time. He wishes it had come with some warning, at least. But instead, one moment it's just the taste of chocolate in his mouth and gentle fingers in his hair and the next, a trapdoor opening under his feet and dumping him into a cold mire of memories, leaving him gasping for breath as the dark surface closes above him.

Everything. He remembers everything. The time before Earth. 6022 years in service of Heaven. Three years… three special years on their own side. And the time that can't be measured. Time reflected back and forth between two mirrors. Time that feels like a black hole in his mind, distorting everything else.

He doesn't know how long it has been since he fell into that black hole. There is blood and pain in it, fire and fear, there's begging for a reprieve and guilt and misery of the knowledge of not being strong enough, there's agony and regret, there's helplessness, and it's heavy, so heavy it collapses under its own weight, all of it compressed into a terrible singularity.

Only now he's clawing his way out of it, feeling stretched thin by the force pulling him in.

It is still dark and the fire is still burning in the hearth, even if low. It is the same fire that burnt there before he remembered and that feels strange and wrong.

Shakily, he loosens the tightness of his limbs, curled in a fetal position, and looks around. He has memories of this place, too. He remembers a gentle voice, explaining where the wooden spoons are and how to make tea.

It sounds like a good idea. He gets up slowly and makes tea, focusing his attention on the simple act. Water, kettle, tea leaves. He feels proud of himself for remembering it.

Dear Crowley. He made sure to make him feel proud of himself for every little thing.

A few grains of sugar spill from the spoon and dance on the table. He stares at them and at his shaking hand.

Dear Crowley. He was explaining everything to him… as if he didn't expect to stay.

Aziraphale dips the sugar into the tea and wipes the stray grains from the table.

He will come back. He promised he will always come back.

Aziraphale pours a bit of almond milk into the tea. Right, he remembers. No animals in Eden. No cows. How did they get to Eden, though? The memories get blurry there.

Crowley will know. When he comes back.

It feels safe here. It's hard to believe it. He stirs the tea and then sits down on the bed, watching the whirling pale-brown liquid.

It must have been Crowley who brought them here, the only place in the world where they are truly safe. Dear Crowley. He will come back. He promised.

Aziraphale takes a sip of the tea, warm and soothing. He sighs.

It's good that Crowley left. Aziraphale is thankful for it. It was pretty bad, having all the memories dumped on him at once. His hands are still shaking as he sips the tea. But as much as it pains him to admit it, it would have been worse if Crowley had been here.

Now he could just curl and cry without making Crowley guilty about it. He didn't have to think about how it's making Crowley feel. Poor dear. He has seen too much of Aziraphale's pain, even been forced to cause some of it. He has been so brave and patient while Aziraphale didn't remember anything and was oblivious to that inner suffering it brought to his demon. No wonder Crowley needed a break from it. But he will come back. He promised.

Aziraphale finishes the tea and puts the cup on the table. The clay chatters against the wood before it's set down. He sits down on the floor, drawing his knees up and embracing them with his hands.

He thinks about Crowley. His fingers dig into the fabric of the soft bathing robe he is dressed in as the images assault him. There's one that always returns. Crowley is pressing a terrible ball of white-hot pain into his chest, pushing it all the way in into his heart. And Crowley's eyes. There's something broken in his eyes.

He promised. But what if he doesn't come back?

Aziraphale reaches under the fabric of the robe with one hand. It's there. The taut swollen scar. He traces it with his finger, all the way from the tail to the head of the snake. It's still a little painful to the touch.

The breath that he takes is shallow. It struggles to get deeper into his lungs and gives up half-way. He can feel the pain of the memories and some scared, wild thing in his mind. The one that connects pain with fear. The one that would flinch from Crowley's hand. It was hiding there, among the memories, and now it has been released with them. He remembers ignoring it, caging it, suppressing it so that Crowley wouldn't see. But he can't chase it away. It's still hiding there, desperately pressing into some corner, ready to lash out if left with no retreat.

It's good that Crowley is not here.

Aziraphale sobs. He wishes for Crowley to be here.

He wishes for Crowley to be here, but he doesn't want Crowley to see him like this. He wishes for Crowley, but doesn't want to hurt him by his own pain and fear and guilt.

He promised. He will come. What to do when he comes?

Aziraphale drags himself up from the floor and looks around the room. He walks along the wall and furniture, touching things. It is all familiar to him, and yet he can see it through a different lens now that he remembers.

He can see Crowley's efforts to make him comfortable. The tartan pattern on the bed. Not quite right, but it's the thought that counts. The clay mugs with angel wings. The vests and coats and bowties in the closet. It's all for him, there are none of Crowley's clothes. And the library. Aziraphale stops at the library and looks at the bound pieces of papyrus in wonder. He opens one and browses through it.

Midsummer Night's Dream, the title says. He remembers the first time seeing that play. Crowley liked that one. There's something else he realizes as he is reading it, too. It's not random shapes on the pages anymore. It's English and he can read and understand it. The languages he knew returned with the memories. Even now he's thinking in English, not in Enochian. He looks at the library and tears up a little. When he didn't remember, he didn't understand what it was, didn't realize how much Crowley did for him. It only hits him now.

He needs Crowley. He feels incomplete without Crowley. He craves the demon's touch, feeling cold and empty without it. But that treacherous part of his mind flinches at the thought. It reminds him of an injured beast, snarling at the hand that hurt it. And he feels guilty for it because he knows that everything Crowley did was for him, out of love. What if Crowley only sees the flinching, not the craving? What if he doesn't come back?

He will come back. He promised.

Aziraphale puts down the hand-written book and caresses its pages. Crowley's touch. It's everywhere around. All of these things were made by him. Aziraphale can feel his aura in them, can feel the care they were made with, the purpose that was given them. They were made for Aziraphale.

He takes a clay pot into his hands and traces the smooth surface shaped by Crowley's hands with his fingertips. He presses the vessel to his chest, wrapping his hands around it. It soothes the faint itching in the snake-shaped scar.

The fire in the hearth is dying, but its light is replaced with the pale dawn creeping through the windows. Aziraphale's body and essence craves sleep, still feeling weakened after the…

No. He does not want to think about it. He does not want to sleep, either. He's afraid of the nightmares, now that the memories have returned.

He falls asleep sitting on the bed, clutching a clay pot to his chest.

Mercifully, there are no dreams.

* * *

He wakes atop of a tangled almost-tartan cover, the pot still clutched in his hand, although sometime during his sleep it slipped away from his chest. He watches it for a moment, disoriented. The familiar feeling of missing something - someone - pierces his consciousness, followed by a terrified whine from that scared thing, trembling in fear at the thought of whom he is missing. He hushes it, annoyed at its mere presence. It's so unjust to Crowley, that it's even there! What if Crowley doesn't come back because of it?

He looks around the room and it feels cold and empty. There is a faint demonic aura in every object, but no actual presence in the room besides his own.

"Crowley?" he asks anyway, in a small voice.

There is no response.

He takes a deep breath and waits for his heart to find a steady pace.

Instead, it's beating faster and faster.

_"In you go, we don't have all day," Gabriel snarls and pushes him towards a door. It is half-open and there's a bottomless shaft behind it, walls of rough concrete stretching up and down infinitely._

_"No! Please no! No no no…" He resists, catching himself on the doorframe, clutching it with the strength born of desperation, struggling as an unrelenting force pushes him inside. He kicks and hits something, although he barely registers it in the choking panic._

_He hears an angry curse. Then his muscles spasm in an electric shock and he is falling into the infinite depth. He sees himself, watching from above. His body hits something hard but his heart continues falling, falling, falling deeper and deeper into despair._

_When the spasms subside, there is no door. He is between two mirrors, and he is alone._

_Alone._

_In the room where Crowley died._

He is alone.

He wipes the tears from his cheeks and takes a slow, steadying breath. It still doesn't fill his lungs fully, but it stirs the stale air in the memory, at least.

He is alone. But Crowley will come back. He promised.

Aziraphale clutches the pot to his chest again and focuses on the way it moves with his breath. Up and down, up and down, like a living creature, another body next to his.

Some time later, he feels steady enough to get up. He is still wearing the bathing robe, he realizes. He goes to the closet and picks from the clothes inside. Trousers, socks, a shirt, a vest, a coat, a bowtie, straw sandals. All made by Crowley (who still hasn't figured out proper shoes). He puts on each of those, carefully smoothing any wrinkles and adjusting his bowtie. For a split second he wishes for a mirror. Then he doesn't. He shudders, but manages to push the thought aside. Instead, he looks out the window. The day is bright, but the sun can't be seen through the canopy of leaves, so he has no idea what time it is. Time for tea, then. It's always time for tea.

It takes him a while to start the fire again. He puts the kettle over it. While he is waiting for the water to boil, there is a quiet knock on the door.

He freezes, staring at it. There is no coherent thought in his mind. He feels like there's a black hole sticking in his throat and he can't swallow it.

"Angel… are you alright? I will leave if you want. Just tell me and I will leave."

Aziraphale opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He tries again. "N-No!" he manages this time.

Crowley is quiet for a moment. "May I come in? Or… would you rather come out, maybe? Just… wherever you feel comfortable to talk. I can stay across the lake, if you want. I only want to offer you something. A choice. Please?"

Crowley came back, as he promised. It takes some time to deal with the feelings that it brought. There is relief. There is love and it's so deep it hurts. There is a memory of pain and it wakes… fear. The bristled, snarling thing inside him. He struggles to put it into a cage, to not let Crowley see. That takes some time too.

Finally he opens the door, afraid that Crowley has left already.

But he didn't. He's still there.

Aziraphale smiles shakily. "You came back..."

Crowley smiles faintly. "Well, I promised I would, didn't I?"


	25. Forgetting

Crowley is standing in front of the door, hesitant.

"Is this all right?" he asks. "I won't enter your house without invitation. Would you like to go somewhere else?"

_Your house_. Aziraphale wants to say that he is being ridiculous, that it was Crowley who built the house. Something stops him, though. He nods. "Would you like some tea?" he asks, suddenly remembering the boiling kettle. Something mundane. Something to distract him from the way his heart and thoughts are racing with Crowley's presence - some of those thoughts are heading towards some very dark places.

"No, thank you."

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. "Uhm, all right," he nods. "I think I'd like to sit down by the pool for a while. It's lovely outside. This is where Adam and Eve often used to rest, too, did you know that?"

The demon shakes his head. "I didn't." He retreats from the door, giving Aziraphale space to follow him out without getting too close.

"Uhm," Aziraphale turns his head nervously. "I just... the water's already boiling, so I'll make some tea for myself, I guess. Do tell me if you change your mind. Make yourself comfortable, I'll be there in a jiffy."

He feels like he's talking to a stranger and he hates himself for it.

* * *

He's holding a steaming cup when he gets outside a moment later. The leaves are still steeping in it, despite the sugar and milk that have already been added. That crime against everything that is English speaks of Aziraphale's hurry to get to Crowley. What if he leaves again?

No, he is there. Aziraphale can see him sitting by the pool, some distance away from the house. He waves, relieved by that. Immediately, he feels like a fool for that gesture. He puts his hand down, not knowing what to do with it. Then he raises it again to adjust his bowtie.

Crowley is keeping perfectly still, facing the water and watching him just with the corner of his eye.

Aziraphale steps closer, but doesn't dare to come all the way. He sits on a stone a few steps away from Crowley and sets his mug down into the grass.

"You came," he says again. It's hard to figure out what to say. There's too much of it.

"Of course," Crowley answers softly, but doesn't look at him. "I'm sorry I ran away."

"You don't need to be."

"Ah. Are you just... being polite? Or was it really better that I wasn't there?"

Aziraphale bites his lip. He smoothes a wrinkle on his trousers, then adjusts his bowtie. He can imagine himself saying he missed Crowley terribly and if he please could stay and not go away anymore, that would be lovely, thank you very much. He can imagine caging that scared little thing somewhere deep inside, locking it behind a thick wall so that Crowley wouldn't see, so that he would only feel the love, all the love he deserves. It feels unfair to Crowley, to let him see it after everything he did for Aziraphale. But somehow, hiding it feels unfair to both of them.

"A bit of both, I guess," he says finally. "I won't lie to you. I could, but… it feels pointless, after what we have been through, doesn't it?"

He pauses to collect his thoughts. He reaches for the cup and removes the tea leaves from it. With his bare fingers. He realizes what he did then and stares at them. They are unhurt. They start shaking.

"You don't need to speak about it, though," Crowley says quickly, interrupting the unpleasant thoughts. "I shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry, angel."

He looks at Aziraphale now and his eyes are open and expressive without the glasses. They are sorrowful and tired, his eyebrows drawn up and together like a gothic arch, like hands clasped in prayer under the vault of a cathedral.

Aziraphale shakes his head. He puts the cup down and entwines his fingers, stilling them. "Would you know it? If I lied to you?" he asks. "If I said I don't even like you… would you know it is a lie?"

Crowley sighs. "No, angel. I wouldn't. Not anymore. Would it be one?" he asks in a tone that is supposed to sound disinterested. It doesn't succeed.

"Yes. It would be."

Crowley relaxes a little. Just a little. It seems like he is gathering the courage to voice some thought. One that has been suppressed for too long to come out easily.

Aziraphale waits patiently.

The question finally comes, a bit strangled. "But you're afraid of me?"

Now it's Aziraphale's turn to tense. His back is straight like a pillar supporting the weight of the Tower of Babel.

"No lies," he whispers, more to himself than to Crowley. The mirrors are shattered. As much as he hates mirrors at the moment, the metaphor is accurate. He can't see himself in Crowley's eyes anymore. If there is any hope of mending those mirrors, it's only with truth.

"I love you," he says. "With the innermost part of my being." That's the truth. When all else was lost, all memories burnt, even those about whom he loved so, the love remained. But it's not the whole truth and Crowley knows it. He's still waiting for the "but".

There it comes. "But there's just something… something subconscious that I can't control…"

"That's afraid of me," Crowley finishes, his voice sad but gentle.

Aziraphale nods, on the verge of tears. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Crowley… I know it's so unjust to you… you did so much for me… sacrificed so much…"

Crowley moves to get closer to him, to stop the tears, to reassure. But he stops himself. He kneels in the grass, still some distance away from Aziraphale. "Shhh, it's alright, angel," he whispers. "It's alright. Don't try to suppress what you feel for my sake."

"What else am I supposed to do, though?" Aziraphale sobs. "Was it all for nothing? Will it never be… like before?"

"I don't know, angel. Maybe it could be. Like before. A long, long time before this."

Aziraphale pauses, sensing something else behind those words. They have a grave weight, a feeling of finality he doesn't understand. "What do you mean?" he asks.

Crowley takes a deep breath, avoiding his look. "I came to tempt you, Aziraphale. Just like at the beginning, remember? We are in the same garden."

"Do you want to offer me the apple? I don't think that would solve anything, my dear. Just cause more trouble."

"No, not the apple," Crowley whispers and takes something from under his tunic. It's a clay bottle with a plug of cork.

Aziraphale watches it suspiciously. "Is that…"

"Water from Lethe."

Aziraphale sighs shakily. The words are hanging between them, stifling with their implications.

"For both of us?" Aziraphale asks, pressing his fingers together to still their trembling.

"It could be. If you would like it that way."

Aziraphale watches the bottle in Crowley's hands.

No memories. Back to the beginning. An angel and a demon in the Garden of Eden, meeting for the first time again. It's tempting. So tempting. A real master of temptation is his demon. Aziraphale can't help but feel proud of him.

"If I accept it, I wouldn't want it otherwise," he says quietly. "I've left you alone with the memories for too long, bearing their weight for both of us. I wouldn't want to do it again."

He reaches for the tea, instead of the bottle, though. It's just right for drinking now. He sips it to calm himself, to find some balance for such a grave decision. Then he lowers it into his lap.

"Do you think we would still fall in love?"

"Yes, angel," Crowley whispers. There's something glistening in his eyes. "I'm sure of it. We would fall in love in any time and reality. Because you are you and I am me."

"Do you think… we could be happy?" Aziraphale asks. There's something in his eyes, too. It's falling into his tea.

"I don't know."

"You're thwarting your own temptation, dear. You should say yes."

"It's not really a temptation," Crowley says, his voice shaking a little. "Just a choice. I'm merely offering choices."

Aziraphale nods and thinks for a moment. "You've always been better than me with those. What would you choose?"

Crowley shivers, running his finger along the smooth clay of the bottle. "I hoped you wouldn't ask… I don't want to influence your choice."

"It's not my choice. It's ours."

Crowley sighs then and looks at the angel. "No lies…" he murmurs. "I won't lie to you. I'm tired, Aziraphale. It's been too much and I can't see how it can get better. We are safe here. We would lose a lot, but we can start all over again. Yes, I would like this."

Aziraphale stays quiet, thinking. He's watching Crowley and thinking about everything they have been through together. About the 6022 years on Earth, concluded with an End of the World that they helped to avert. He's thinking about the three special years on their own side and about that time that makes it all distorted, tearing like a black hole into his memories.

He watches the bottle in Crowley's hand. Here is a chance to get rid of that distortion. Here is a chance to erase that uncontrollable fear, to send it into oblivion. And here is a chance to ease Crowley's suffering. Not mend it but erase it instantly as if it never existed. That's what's most tempting about the offer. But the cost is everything else. Every other memory they share. Every memory of Earth, of humans, of the slow dance between the two of them, every step of the long journey, lost forever.

Aziraphale sighs. He watches Crowley now, not the bottle he is holding. "I remember…" he whispers. "I remember unbearable pain. Begging you to kill me. But you didn't. Why?"

Crowley hisses between his teeth like in a sudden pain. "W-We…" His voice fails. He licks his lips and tries again. "We were… so close. I am sorry. I couldn't… couldn't do it… so much pain… I'm sorry..."

"Thank you for it," Aziraphale says before Crowley gets lost in the memory. "Thank you, Crowley. You've been strong for me when I had no strength left."

The demon looks up. His eyes are still apologizing, but his mouth has already caught up with Aziraphale's words. It closes, stopping the stream of apologies.

In the following silence, Aziraphale can hear his own heartbeat. He hates doing this. He hates making a choice that will rob Crowley of the relief he wishes for. It hurts him deep inside. But Crowley did the same for him, went through the same pain for him.

"Allow me to be strong for you now," he whispers.

Crowley lets out a shaky breath that he has been holding.

"I've hurt you too much," Aziraphale continues, but corrects himself as soon as Crowley opens his mouth to protest: "You hurt too much. Just like I did. I'm glad you didn't listen to me, though. I'm glad you found that strength in you. I don't know if I can be as strong as you, but I want to try, if you let me. If it fails, we can still choose this," he points as the bottle. "But I don't want to give up without trying. I'm sorry for the pain my choice is causing you."

Crowley smiles sadly. "I made one that caused you pain, too. More than one. It's alright."

Aziraphale bites his lip. "But it doesn't… it doesn't need to be final. We can still take a drink of forgetfulness together, if it turns out we are broken beyond repair."

Crowley turns away, his shoulders shaking a little. "I can't see how…" he murmures. "But if you want to try mending this, I will do my best."

Aziraphale wipes his own tears. "I want to try. We managed it before, didn't we? And it wasn't easy, either. After six millennia of silences and guessing, we learnt to talk openly. You even made me go to that support group for ex cult members, remember?"

Crowley snorts. "Wasn't my best idea."

"The cookies were lovely. And it did give me some perspective, actually. "

"We did learn a thing or two about triggers, too," Crowley says dejectedly, the little smirk elicited by the memory just a fleeting, ephemeral thing.

"Well, yes. And we helped each other, didn't we?" Aziraphale looks at him hopefully. He puts the tea aside and slides down from the stone he has been sitting on, shifting closer to the demon, hoping to cross the distance between them. "You are a world to me, Crowley. I believe we can do this together."

Crowley withdraws a little. "How, Aziraphale?" he asks tiredly. "How can we do this together when _I_ am your fucking trigger?"

Aziraphale closes his eyes firmly. He knows that Crowley is right. _Trigger_… yes, that is the right word. Crowley's presence is reminding him of pain, threatening to send him spiralling into the black hole. His heart is like a wild bird trying to escape from the cage of his chest as he reaches for Crowley's hand and takes it, not opening his eyes. He knows what he would see if he opened them. A fiery sigil and serpentine eyes, and something broken behind them.

He feels the hand instead, caresses the palm with his thumb. A sob comes from somewhere next to him, closer now. Crowley is leaning towards him, like a plant turning to the sun.

"Something in me is afraid," Aziraphale whispers. "But if I suppress it, it will just get more scared and lonely."

He takes a deep breath. "Please, Crowley… tame me."


	26. Taming the fox

When taming a wild creature, it is important to observe proper rites.

An angel and a demon meet in Eden. They meet every day at the same time, although not measured by a clock. They meet in the afternoon, at the time when the shadows are as long as the things that cast them. The hour of true shadows, they call it. There is something symbolic about it. It's the time when things in the shadows are exactly as they are in reality, not shortened or lengthened, not worse or better. They find it a suitable hour to meet, even if it's not truly an hour and comes at a slightly different time every day.

They meet by the lower pool, in the place where Crowley went to change from his snake form. Maybe it's symbolic, too - a place where the truth has been revealed. Or maybe it's just that the moss-covered rocks on the shore are pleasant to sit on and the air is fresh and cooling in the afternoon heat.

The bottle with the water from Lethe is hung from the branches of the Tree of Knowledge as the temptation it is. They both know it is there.

At first, they don't speak much. There's too much unsaid, too much turmoil in the feelings behind the words. It's easier to stay quiet, to just be with the other. Some distance away, not touching… just being there. Being there is all right. No sudden movements, no unpredictable reactions. Every day, same place, same time. The fox is wary, but does not snap. Aziraphale can't help but think of it like a fox, after what he said to Crowley. A wild little fox with big ears and pointy snout. He can't hate it when he imagines it like that, can't be too angry with it for fearing Crowley. He accepts its presence and waits patiently for it to be tamed.

Aziraphale is the one who sets the distance. Sometimes he overshoots it, too eager to close the gap between them, to fill that hollowness in Crowley's eyes. He tries to hide it, but Crowley knows.

Crowley is the one who decides about the time they spend together. Aziraphale wouldn't admit it when it gets too much. He would not lie to Crowley, but admitting it to himself is what's the problem. He's too used to suppressing his own discomfort for Crowley's sake - so used to it that he's not aware of doing it anymore. But Crowley has learnt to recognize the signs. He has learnt that when Aziraphale closes his eyes, he has already overstayed. He watches for the more subtle signs. A slight stiffness in the shoulders as hands that would like to fidget are consciously stilled. A little nervous smile. He leaves as soon as he notices them.

It's all right to leave. There always is the certainty of tomorrow. They can look forward to that hour tomorrow.

And in the time between, it is easier to be alone. When the memories come, it's easier to not be seen, to not concern the other one.

Then one day, Aziraphale sits just a step away from Crowley and he is relaxed, no stiffness in his shoulders. But he smiles nervously and Crowley shifts a little, ready to leave.

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon," Aziraphale says unexpectedly.

"Sorry, what was that?" Crowley murmurs almost like a subconscious response, a thousand times mentally repeated conversation that his words slip into like a wagon into the tracks on a dirt road.

"I said…"

"Wait, that was my line. You stole my line."

Aziraphale chuckles, the nervous smile melting into a more sincere one. "Well, it's a good conversation starter."

"Yeah," Crowley smirks wryly. "Can be applied anytime. An accurate summary of the whole history."

He takes a good look at Aziraphale, searching for any signs of discomfort. His eyes soften when he only sees a slight embarrassment. "How long have you mentally rehearsed that?" he asks.

"A couple of days. Silly, right?"

"No. Not at all."

"It is."

"Eh… A little bit, maybe. But we are talking now, so that's it."

"Took me long enough…" Aziraphale murmurs dejectedly. "I'm sorry, I…"

"Stop it right there," Crowley interrupts him. "Please."

Aziraphale opens his mouth, but closes it again.

"I can wait," Crowley says. "I want to wait until you are ready, because if you aren't, I'll just pull you down instead of you helping me up. Don't push yourself to do more than you are ready for."

"It feels wrong, focusing on myself when you need me. After all you have done for me."

"Have you ever traveled by plane, angel?"

Aziraphale blinks, surprised by the unexpected question. "Well, there was that blessing in Japan I had to do in 1998, I had to take a flight to Tokyo. Gabriel only let me take economy class and the food was really awful."

"Yeah, that's one of ours. Mine, actually. Sorry for that, I didn't expect you to be forced to endure it. To be fair though, I got caught in that myself when I got the assignment in New York. But, anyway, you remember those safety instructions they give you at the beginning?"

Aziraphale looks confused. "I do, but what…"

Crowley stands up, demonstrating a perfect flight attendant posture. "Dear passengers, welcome aboard Shitty Airlines. The emergency exits should be somewhere here and maybe here. Life vests are under your seats, but if we fall, we are fucked anyway. In the event of a decompression, an oxygen mask will appear in front of you. If you are travelling with a child or someone who requires assistance, secure your mask on first, and then assist the other person."

Aziraphale smiles a bit with Crowley's flight attendant impression, but gets pensive afterwards. "I see," he says softly.

Crowley sits down again, not meeting Aziraphale's eyes. "I need you to first care for yourself… so you can help me. I can't deal with this on my own, angel."

Aziraphale nods. "It feels selfish..." he sighs.

"I know. It's a sacrifice I ask from you."

And Aziraphale recognises the truth in Crowley's words. "Tomorrow then," he whispers and gets up.

"Tomorrow," Crowley nods and watches him leave. When Aziraphale is gone, he curls on the ground and weeps. He's thinking about the bottle hanging on the Tree of Knowledge.

* * *

They talk about mundane things in the following days. They talk though, and that's important. Crowley brings meals that Aziraphale enjoys, knowing the angel likes eating much more than cooking. Aziraphale sometimes brings a papyrus to share some poem that he remembered and wrote down, continuing Crowley's work.

And then one day, it starts raining.

It doesn't rain often in Eden. The soil keeps wet and soft even without rain. But when it does, Aziraphale moves closer to Crowley. That first meeting still in his mind, he summons his wings and extends one above the demon.

Only it does not shield Crowley from the rain. It is a pathetic thing with big patches of naked skin and a few longer feathers sticking out like trees left after a windstorm that felled the forest, torn and scorched in places.

Crowley stares at it, at the drops hitting the sad feathers and sliding onto his skin. His breathing gets shallow, his gaze unfocused.

"Oh dear… I'm sorry…" Aziraphale stammers, immediately tucking the offending wings away from the material plane. "I wasn't thinking. Please, Crowley-"

But Crowley is already gone, fleeing away into the forest.

Aziraphale does not follow. He curls on the ground and weeps in the rain. He's thinking about the bottle hanging on the Tree of Knowledge.

* * *

"Do you mind showing them to me again?"

It's the next day and the sky is clear. Aziraphale adjusts his plain blue bowtie, glancing nervously in Crowley's direction. "Are you sure?"

Crowley nods.

Aziraphale sighs and unfurls his wings - or what's left of them.

Crowley watches, but doesn't touch them. Aziraphale is thankful for that. He shudders with the memory of Satan's touch, so gentle on his wings for just one moment before He took the whip.

"Angel?"

He doesn't respond.

"Angel, are you with me?"

Aziraphale sighs and finally focuses on Crowley. "Oh? Yes, yes, sorry…"

"No, I'm sorry. I just wanted to see... while thinking more clearly, you know. I thought the feathers would have started growing by now. But it makes sense that your essence needs to recover fully before putting energy into new feathers."

Aziraphale looks at his own wings critically. "I think it will take a few moults for the feathers to grow to proper shape. It's fine, really. Sometimes I didn't have the wings out for a decade, I don't mind that."

"Your essence, though…" Crowley says chokedly. "It's still weakened, isn't it? You can't do any miracles yet?"

Aziraphale shakes his head. "Not yet. I don't know how long that should take, either. Could be years as well. I've never experienced… well… we don't know. This is probably normal. No reason to worry."

Crowley nods, but his hands are shaking.

Aziraphale hides his wings. "Dear?" he asks quietly.

Crowley smiles a bit. "It's fine. You are right, no reason to worry."

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. He takes a step closer. He doesn't close his eyes as he reaches for Crowley's hand. He keeps their gazes locked, so that Crowley can see - there's a slight hesitation, but no fear in his eyes.

The demon doesn't move as Aziraphale closes the gap between them like an exhausted marathon runner crossing the last meters to the finish line. He doesn't move as Aziraphale embraces him. He doesn't dare do anything to not awake the fear he's trying to tame.

Aziraphale doesn't move, either. He remains motionless for a long time, but Crowley can feel the angel's breath tickling his neck and it's getting deeper with every exhale.

Finally, Aziraphale relaxes fully. "It's not fine," he whispers. "I know it's not fine."

Crowley hisses as the words touch something deep. Suddenly his knees buckle and he sobs in the embrace.

"I almost lost you," words spill through the sobs. "There was... such a small, weak spark left… almost nothing. So close to losing you completely…"

"I'm so sorry, Crowley. It must have been so scary," Aziraphale sighs, caressing the fiery hair. It's long now, just like when they met here for the first time.

Crowley's tears fall on the pale coat that he made himself. He clenches his fists around the fabric. "Dammit, angel! Don't… don't say you are sorry! It was me! I did that! My hand!"

"But I am sorry, dear. I feel sorrow over the fact that you had to go through that. And that… that _your hand_ part… That makes it even worse. I am so sorry."

Crowley slowly loosens the tight grip like a marionette with cut strings. "I'm sorry, too."

Aziraphale brings them both down, kneeling with Crowley in his arms. "I'm here," he whispers, his voice shaking with the need to reassure. "I'm here, you didn't lose me. I'm with you… I'm sorry it took me so long…"

"Angel," Crowley half-sobs, half-snarls into his shoulder. "Stop saying you're fucking sorry."

Aziraphale shudders. How was it? Secure your own oxygen mask first. "I need to," he whispers. "I _am_ sorry. I don't know what else to feel. And you didn't lose me. You won't lose me. That's what matters today."

And that's how they stay for a long time.

The fox gets a bit restless after a while. Aziraphale doesn't hush it, doesn't try to restrain it. He doesn't withdraw from Crowley, either. _See? It's all right_, he tells the fox. _He won't hurt us. I know he did before, but he won't. Can you feel it in the tremble of his hands? He won't, we are safe with him, there's nowhere safer than with him._

And this time, the fox listens.

It's a while later. The sun is setting already. "I... didn't lose you," Crowley speaks with the wonder of a prisoner looking at the world outside of his cell for the first time after long years.

And Aziraphale imagines the burdens Crowley is carrying from that room of mirrors. If Aziraphale's fear is a fox, then Crowley is like a snake who swallowed an elephant. It is sitting there in his stomach, weighing him down so that he can't move from place, skin too thick to be digested properly. That elephant is called guilt.

They are barely at the beginning, and there is still a bottle hanging on the Tree of Knowledge.


	27. Digesting the elephant

"You were right. It broke me," Crowley says days later, watching a pale orchid that blooms on a tree nearby. He is not clinging to Aziraphale so desperately anymore. He knows he won't lose him, he knows they are safe. But when the memories come, it's still easier to be alone.

Aziraphale sighs, playing with a blade of grass. He's anxious again. Crowley can see it in his movements, in the position of his shoulders when he turns his gaze to the angel. For a moment he considers leaving, but they are past that already.

"Crowley, I wish I could have reversed our places," Aziraphale says. "That first choice about whom He should hurt… I got it all wrong. I have always been better at justifying the lesser evil. At convincing myself that it's actually good. It's you who always saw through that. I think… I think I would be able to hurt you and not break with it if I saw it as the lesser evil. But I chose, I chose a stupid self-sacrifice that broke you. Wasn't really thinking much, was I?"

Crowley's fists clench. "I did not say it so you could blame yourself," he mutters darkly.

"Oh, I'm sorry…" Aziraphale raises the blade of grass as if he was trying to hide behind it.

"Fuck it! You're always sorry! Stop being sorry!"

Aziraphale's words come with tears in his eyes. "I told you, I can't…"

Those tears hit Crowley like an arrow straight to the heart. "Shit. _I_'m sorry. I don't know what…"

"It's okay," Aziraphale says softly and stands up, dropping the blade of grass on the ground. "See… see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Tomorrow," Crowley nods, his heart a hollow cavern echoing _you hurt him you hurt him_ over and over.

They leave. Both of them are thinking about the bottle hanging on the Tree of Knowledge.

* * *

"Crowley, I… I'm not sure if I can be strong enough," Aziraphale says two days later. They met yesterday, but it was an awkward thing, that meeting. They didn't speak. So now Aziraphale does, and his eyes are sorrowful. Again. "To pull you up without sinking myself. I… Maybe it would be better to forget. Save ourselves more pain."

"No."

"No? Are you sure?"

"I don't know. But the fear… I don't sense it from you anymore. Well, not fear of me, at least."

"Not of you," Aziraphale nods, on the verge of tears. "But you are hurting. You are hurting and I don't know how to make it better and it's just taking longer and longer…"

"Angel. Angel, look at me," Crowley says and there is such gentleness in his words that Aziraphale obeys and the tears don't fall. Not yet. "I'm sorry for pressing you to somehow fix yourself so you can help me."

"But how else…"

"That's our problem, isn't it?" Crowley sighs. "I can see it now. We are too used to hiding the pain… just so it's not reflected in the mirrors. Or trying to, at least. It didn't really work, but bugger it all if we didn't try. To be strong for the other one, I mean."

"That's how we survived, though."

"Yes, we did, didn't we? But we are safe now. And I just had a head start at realizing how messed up I am, that's all. You saw it and hid your own hurts not just from me but from yourself as well."

"No, I didn't," Aziraphale protests. "I was being honest."

"About the fear. The part you couldn't control… couldn't hide. The rest you hid too deeply, even from yourself."

Aziraphale bites his lower lip, sensing an unpleasant truth in Crowley's words. "How do you know?" he whispers.

"Been doing that all the time until you remembered. And then just… something broke, you know? I can see something breaking in you now. I know it too well."

"But you asked me for help. You said you can't do it yourself."

"I didn't see then. I thought I'm the kid and you're the adult on a plane. But we are just two scared kids and we are losing cabin pressure fast. Gotta help each other."

"Or forget."

Crowley kneels in front of Aziraphale, taking his hands. "It's too precious to forget," he whispers.

The tears fall from Aziraphale's eyes. "It is, isn't it?"

"Yes. You know, now one of us doesn't have to be strong for the other one anymore. We are safe. We can allow ourselves to be weak together and lean at each other."

Aziraphale sighs shakily. Then nods.

But when the memories come, he still finds it better to be alone.

* * *

"You were right. It broke me," Crowley says again. It's a new day. Same beginning, though. Aziraphale doesn't reply, doesn't apologize, aware of where it led last time. He lets Crowley speak.

"You can say you are sorry if you would like," Crowley prompts gently. "I know you do."

"I am," Aziraphale whispers. "Sorry."

"I know. It's all right. But it can't be your fault if it wasn't your choice, right? I told you, Satan decided who he would pick long before He asked. He knew."

"Knew what?"

"That you would not break if you had to hurt me. Lesser evil, right? But he wanted to break both of us and knew exactly how to do it, no matter what you chose. His final goal was both punishing us and getting me to serve him again."

"Yes, you told me before. When you spoke about the mirrors. He talked to you after you discorporated, didn't he?"

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, alarmed. "How do you know I was discorporated? I never told you…"

"Oh. Forget it."

"No, Aziraphale. How do you know? You don't need to tell me now, but I don't want to forget it. Please, don't hide from me."

"What if I hide because I don't want to hurt you more?"

"It would hurt me more to know that you are hiding something painful… to not hurt me."

Aziraphale smiles faintly. "Mirrors, right? Complicates the math…"

"It really does," Crowley nods.

"I'll tell you if you tell me about the talk with Satan."

Crowley signs heavily. "Alright then. Tomorrow."

It is not easy to say that. It means facing the memories together.

* * *

It is tomorrow.

Aziraphale does not feel more ready, but he takes a deep breath and tells Crowley.

He tells him about the disorienting feeling of a new corporation, about Gabriel and the room above the mirror.

Crowley's eyes are full of daggers. But not aimed at him. "The asshole! He shoved you into a corporation right away, after… after… And he fucking… made you watch? That utter, complete prick! Damn… if I had known..."

"...you would've what, dear? Waved at me?" Aziraphale's tone is light, but the weight of the memory is pulling his shoulders down. Crowley. Alone. Bleeding. Broken. So hurt by losing Aziraphale that he welcomed the physical pain.

Crowley takes his hand. "I don't know. Maybe. I'm sorry you had to watch that. Must have been ugly."

"See?" Aziraphale smiles faintly. "Apologizing as well."

"Bless it. It seems I am. Yeah, I get why you do it."

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. "I watched as… as that demon killed you. Just so, without any warning. As if you didn't matter…" his voice falters. "I … I was afraid that I lost you, too."

Crowley embraces him around the shoulders. "No. You didn't."

Aziraphale leanes at the demon, tears falling on the grey tunic.

As they cease after a while, he glances up at Crowley's sorrowful face. He takes a deep breath, banishing the traces of tears from his voice.

"You know what I told Gabriel?" he whispers with a little blush, like telling a dirty joke during an official event. "I told him he could go fuck himself."

That catches Crowley by surprise. He throws his head back and laughs. He only laughs once, a lonely "hah" sound, but it lifts the weight of the memory from Aziraphale's shoulders for a little while. It's all right. If they can laugh about it, it's all right.

"And I told Satan I was done talking to him," Crowley says and chuckles again.

Aziraphale opens his mouth into a shocked o. "Oh goodness. You are so brave."

"It didn't feel brave," Crowley murmurs. The laughter is gone, buried six feet under. "I'll tell you about it, as I promised. Tomorrow. I'm too pissed off at Gabriel right now. Want to hear what I would like to do to him?"

"Yes, please."

* * *

There is a fresh breeze in the canopy of trees. The air feels sharp, although not unpleasant.

"A sandstorm outside," Crowley murmures.

"Ah. It's good it can't reach here."

"Yes."

A moment of silence. Then Crowley takes a deep breath.

He tells Aziraphale about the pool of boiling lava and his conversation with Satan. He tells him again about the deal that he refused, still haunting him.

"Lesser evil, right?" he asks hoarsely. "Still can't convince myself about that. I remember… remember a moment of clarity, when I could see all the consequences. But it got clouded and never cleared again. I don't know how. How refusing to sacrifice myself and throwing you into pain could be a lesser evil. How could I ever think that?"

"Look through my eyes," Aziraphale says.

Crowley looks at him. "I don't know how anymore."

"You think my view of you changed because you hurt me?"

"Hurt you, Aziraphale? I almost killed you. Really killed you, not just discorporated. You feared me. Sacrificing myself for you would have been the best thing I could have done. None of that would have happened."

"Now who's judging himself based on choices he didn't really have?" Aziraphale huffs, but his eyes show compassion. "I know… it's hard not to. Like the fear, the guilt doesn't respond well to reasoning, does it? It feels like you had a choice that could have made a difference, even if you know you didn't. I just want you to know that the deal you made was exactly what I would have wished you to do if we'd had a chance to discuss it. And nothing you did can change that."

Crowley is quiet for a long time. "So what would I see?" he asks then. "If I looked through your eyes?"

"Someone incredibly brave," Aziraphale says without a shade of doubt. "Someone who puts my needs before his own. It's so much easier to sacrifice yourself than to be the one left behind."

"It doesn't feel that way. If I had known what He was going to do to you… what I was going to do..."

"What He was going to do to us," Aziraphale corrects. "I would still find it better than being left alone with the knowledge that you sacrificed for me. That you were a… a mindless tool," Aziraphale shivers. "I don't think I could bear that."

"I don't think you saw it like that. When you were in so much pain you couldn't even scream. When you begged for it to stop. When you called for Mother. When… when…"

Crowley's fists are clenched, his breath quick and shallow. Aziraphale, on the other hand, looks like a marionette with cut strings. Unable to move, unable to raise his head and look at the demon. Finally he makes a faint, strangled sound.

"It's okay…" Crowley breaths out, the words trembling like mayflies at the end of the day. "It's okay. We can allow ourselves to be weak together."

Aziraphale nods and crumbles, burying his face into the moss. "It's over," he says hoarsely. "It's over. We survived. Why does it hurt still?"

Crowley curls next to him. They weep. They are thinking about the bottle hanging on the Tree of Knowledge.

"Too late to drink it now, isn't it?" Aziraphale whispers.

"Yes. We got too far already. Wouldn't be fair, to give up."

"I'm sorry… should have accepted right away."

"I'm glad you didn't."


	28. Draw me a sheep

Another day. The sandstorm passed in the outside world. The sky's the shade of forget-me-nots.

"I'm getting sick of sitting in one place," Aziraphale murmurs. "Could we go for a walk?"

"Of course, angel."

They walk.

"Is that a peanut plant?" Aziraphale asks, kneeling by a little plant with yellow flowers, similar in shape to those of a pea.

Crowley smiles. "Yes, it is. Very good, angel."

Aziraphals smiles back, a little proud. But a bigger part of that smile is directed towards Crowley, a thankful appreciation of all those little things Crowley did for him while carrying the burden of memories for both of them.

He continues pointing at plants that Crowley has taught him to recognize.

Crowley praises him for each of them and occasionally shows him a new one.

Aziraphale puts a cream-colored camellia into Crowley's hair.

They don't talk about memories.

"Meet me at my place tomorrow?" Aziraphale suggests.

"Oh, sure."

"I'd really like to see your place sometime later, too. When it suits you. Could I come?"

"Uhm. Okay."

"You got one, right? You haven't been sleeping outside all this time, I hope?"

"Of course not."

And so Crowley starts half-building and half-miracling another cottage when he's not with Aziraphale, because of course he has been sleeping outside all this time.

It feels strange, making something just for himself. He has not made anything that would be his since getting here, with the exception of that one tunic and trousers. Everything else he made was for Aziraphale.

He often catches himself thinking about what Aziraphale would like while doing things. He has to consciously stop doing that, because he knows Aziraphale would recognize it and think he's just been moping around all the time. Which he has. Which Aziraphale probably knows. His angel is a bastard. A few words and he can manipulate Crowley into doing something for himself.

* * *

"Oh, that's really lovely, Crowley! You have pictures here!"

"Well… yeah. Just one so far. Been painting a little. Here and there." All of yesterday when he realized he needed some personal touch that would convince the angel that he's been feeling at home in this brand new cottage for a while already and he can't really buy any other art in Eden.

"It's lovely," Aziraphale smiles. Of course he knows and Crowley knows that he knows. The paint is still a little wet, after all. It's mostly brown and red, since Crowley didn't have the time to figure out how to make other ones. The picture is painted on papyrus and depicts a car. Or rather an impression of a car. Leather and shiny metal and smooth curves and speed.

He forgot everything else while painting it. He painted with red and it didn't remind him of blood.

"Would you like me to paint you something too?"

"Oh, my dear! That would be delightful!"

It is a dance. One that they knew so well before, they knew the steps by heart. But something shattered and now they are learning it again, tentatively trying the steps and testing whether the dancefloor will break under them. A game of "I know that you know that I know". A mirror game. The mirrors are still cracked and smudged, but they already hold hazy reflections.

* * *

"I underestimated him," Crowley says. He's drinking salep in Aziraphale's house while watching the angel as he's trying to find the best place for the picture. It depicts a bookshop. Or rather an idea of a bookshop. Warmth, coziness, smell of old paper, clutter of beloved objects.

"Uhm, who do you mean, dear?" Aziraphale asks absently, judging how the picture would look above the table.

"Him."

Aziraphale turns immediately. "Oh."

He puts the picture down on the table and sits across Crowley. They haven't talked like this for a long time, but there's still a lot unsaid.

"I was thinking about His game. The lesser evils. The choices we didn't have."

Aziraphale takes his cup of salep into his hands, feeling the need to occupy them with something. "And what conclusions did you come to?" he asks tensely.

"I don't know what's worse. The responsibility for the consequences if you did have a choice... or the knowledge you didn't have any, that you were just a tool to Him - only picking the way to be used, but used anyway. That's what He wanted, a tool. And He almost got it."

"But He didn't," Aziraphale says reassuringly. "You defied Him. That was a choice you made, the right choice."

Crowley snorts self-deprecatingly "I thought I was clever doing it. I thought I was buying us time. But He had decided to get me into His service again. Turns out He really appreciated my work. I wonder where He was when I only asked for one bloody wahoo."

"I always knew you were doing a great job," Aziraphale smiles faintly. "So clever and creative. He saw the results, but I don't think He really got it. Not if He thought He could make you a tool and still get that wonderful creativity of yours."

Crowley bites his lip. "He could, I'm afraid. Like hacking a computer and making it do what you want. The… the programs are still there... just not the will… And maybe, if He is cruel enough… and He is, definitely... there would be a spark of will left, aware of what's happening but unable to do anything about it."

He's shaking now and Aziraphale lets go of the salep to clasp his hands. Holding the cup before made Aziraphale's palms warm around Crowley's.

"Oh dear… that's so scary. I didn't know…"

"I never told you. I never told you how he can invade a demon's mind and just put things there. Instructions, knowledge. Things like that."

Aziraphale gasps. "Crowley! He did that to you? Before?" His eyes have a dangerous glint.

"Y-Yes. Last time when giving me the instruction about the Antichrist. But that's just invading, not controlling. To be controlled, you need to let Him in."

"Oh, Crowley…" The grip of Aziraphale's hands is strong, as if regretting it couldn't be there at the time. "Why haven't you told me before?"

"I… I thought it wouldn't happen again. I didn't want to think about it… I didn't want you to think about it."

Aziraphale stays silent, encouraging the demon to speak.

"But now…" Crowley sobs. "You saved me, Aziraphale. You saved me from that. I just want you to know."

"You saved yourself, dear. You refused the deal. And the thought that you even considered it… for my sake…" Aziraphale shakes his head helplessly.

"I refused it because I was thinking about what you would want. I promised you… that I wouldn't separate us. That helped with my choice. But it wouldn't have held. If you hadn't gotten the key… angel, you saved us both there. You were so brave and witty, using the sleight of hand like that! I'll never complain about your magic tricks again."

"Really? Never is a long time, dear. I wouldn't make such promises."

Crowley smirks, but then the expression in his face gets serious again. "Can you tell me one thing, please?"

"Of course, dear."

Crowley still hesitates with his question. "Don't take it as judgement or jealousy, please," he says finally. "I'd just like to understand. I know it wasn't purely pretense, I sensed your fear of me. But turning away from me as you fell, leaning on Him instead… how much pretense was in that?"

Aziraphale looks at him gently. "All of it," he whispers. "I'm sorry I had to do that to you. I needed to show Him my fear of you, to make it believable."

Crowley nods shakily.

"I was afraid of you somewhere in my subconsciousness," Aziraphale continues. "But of Him, I was afraid with all of my mind, a thousand times more than of you. I knew you would have caught me when I fell."

"And yet you turned to Him," Crowley whispers. "My brave angel... And I almost ruined it all because I underestimated Him."

"You didn't. You brought us here."

"I still underestimated Him. I thought He would torture us over and over, corporation after corporation until I broke and accepted the deal. I thought there might come a chance to escape, if we endured. I made the mistake of assumption, repeatedly. I knew he would lie, but I believed Him about this. And then I assumed He would keep an established routine. So when He changed something, I didn't notice."

"Hellfire," Aziraphale says quietly. "He didn't want to torture us over and over. He wanted me to die by your hand."

Crowley nods, the words sticking in his throat and refusing to pass further.

"You would have accepted the deal, if I had died by your hand."

Another nod.

"Oh Crowley…"

Aziraphale moves to Crowley's side of the table and doesn't let go of him for a long time. The salep gets cold. The picture remains unhung today.

* * *

They are walking together again. It is a casual walk, with a lot of stopping to take a better look at different plants. Sometimes to cautiously taste them as well, if it's a plant that Crowley doesn't recognize and looks like it could be tasty. Most of them aren't, but it's fun and relatively safe, because the poisonous plants are always out of reach. Eden was designed to nourish humans, not kill them.

But Aziraphale seems to have a certain destination in mind.

Crowley notices it when he looks up and between the crowns of trees, he sees the wall looming above them. Aziraphale is leading them to the Eastern gate.

Crowley stops in his tracks. "Angel."

"Yes, dear?"

"You don't want to leave, do you?"

"Leave? Oh! No, of course not! I only wanted to make sure that the gate is closed well."

Crowley relaxes with that. "It should be. I tried my best. But you are the expert on gates here."

Aziraphale smirks with that. "Actually, not really. I just made the first one ever and the title stuck somehow. But I'm not sure if I repaired it that well. I just tried to put the stones back as they were. Didn't have any idea about things like mortar back then. Oh, but I see you did."

They arrived at the former gate as they were talking.

Aziraphale tests the strength of the repaired wall. "You really did a good job, Crowley."

"I also covered it with sand from the other side."

Aziraphale looks at him. "How…"

"Rope ladder. How did you think I got the water from Lethe?"

"Honestly? Didn't really think about it at the moment. You are the creative one. I fixed the gate with me on the outside, so..."

"Heh. I'm just glad you didn't know much about masonry. I don't think I'd have had enough strength to open it for us if you did."

Aziraphale nods thoughtfully and sits down, leaning on the repaired wall. "I don't know if I've ever thanked you properly. You saved me. You didn't give up even when the odds seemed impossible, and you saved me."

Crowley joins him, sitting down at his side in a misaligned heap of limbs. He licks his dry lips.

"You begged me to kill you," he whispers. "You pleaded with me to end your suffering. And I didn't listen, Aziraphale. I didn't listen and turned away from you to open the gate." The words spilling from his lips are like black tar, staining him and everything around.

Aziraphale listens carefully. It's better for them to spill, better outside than inside. Outside, he can at least try to clean those stains. That's why he brought them here. He has checked on the gate on his own long ago, as one of the first thing after they settled into the meeting routine with Crowley.

"I don't remember that," he murmurs. "I don't really remember anything between the desert and waking in the cottage. You must have been so lonely."

"Ngk. Aziraphale. Of course you don't remember. You were in so much pain that… you begged me... to kill you!"

Aziraphale runs his finger along the rough stone. "I remember the pain," he says and closes his eyes like many times before, firmly, as if hiding from something.

But then he opens them and his gaze is gentle as he is watching the demon. "I remember the pain, but not begging you, so… apparently I wasn't very lucid at that point, was I? I told you before. You managed to be strong for me when I had no strength left. You saved me."

Crowley takes a shaky breath. Then exhales slowly.

Aziraphale takes his hand, caressing it with his thumb like gently wiping some dirt from it. "I say it so easily, don't I?" he murmurs. "It must have been really awful. I can't even imagine... You are so brave, my dear."

"I am brave? You were in so much pain… and you feared me… and still you comforted me while you could."

"That I remember," Aziraphale nods. "It didn't really require bravery. I was dying so I thought it would be over for me soon. Pity, but nothing to do about that. You proved me wrong, of course, but that's what I thought then. You were the one staying and having to go on. Of course I wanted to comfort you."

"You bastard," Crowley says, his voice a little choked. "You wonderful bastard. You wouldn't even make your last moments about you."

"Because it's much easier to be the one dying than the one staying. Do you think you would have been able to keep that promise you gave me? It was my last request, after all."

"Wasn't. You survived."

"I thought it was," Aziraphale pouts. "That counts."

"Well… since I was in the middle of a fucking desert, it would have taken me a while to get to the nearest holy water, so I would certainly have considered it."

"That counts, too," Aziraphale nods gently.

"But with Him out there, being able to find me… I'm not sure. I'd probably take the holy water."

"I wouldn't blame you," Aziraphale sighs. Then he gets up and runs his hands along the repaired wall. He seems satisfied.

"He won't get to you here," he turns to Crowley. "You are safe from Him."

"So we are staying here forever?"

"You are the one who wanted to go to Alpha Centauri. Surely this is a more hospitable place?"

"Well, yes. But I thought there was going to be nothing left of Earth. Now the Earth is still there with all of its books and music and restaurants and you are stuck here with me."

Aziraphale smiles a little. "Precisely because I am stuck with you, I do not mind the rest of the world staying out."

"Are you sure, angel?" Crowley asks uncertainly. "I don't feel stuck anywhere as long as you are there… but is it enough for you? We are still living apart. We remind each other of terrible things too much to be able to be truly together. It feels like we lost what we had before."

"That's true, but I don't think it's a bad thing. We are here, where we started over 6 000 years ago, so why couldn't we start anew? Rebuild what we had and enjoy the ride?"

Crowley smirks with one corner of his lips. "We have a wall. Could make some wooden chains and pretend it's the Bastille."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale admonishes him, scandalized. Or at least pretending to be.

Crowley smiles. "Fine, angel. Let's start anew. Let's go on dates, get to know each other again, move as slowly or fast as we need to."

Aziraphale wiggles happily. "That sounds scrumptious, my dear!"

Crowley watches him with a fond gaze. "But first I believe we have a bottle of water we need to pour out over the wall."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coincidentally with the posting of this chapter, I just wrote another short story dealing with Satan's disturbing ability to enter Crowley's mind, with a bit different approach inspired by a picture prompt from WhiteleyFoster. I also wanted to explore an alternative to this story there: what if it wouldn't be Crowley who had to hurt Aziraphale, but the other way round? You can read it here if you want: [The Mark of the Devil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23609200)
> 
> P.S. I also accidentally deleted the chapter while editing it, sorry about that, it's back now!


	29. Wings and snakes

Imagine a fancy restaurant. The tables from true mahogany are covered with snow-white tablecloths, hemmed with delicate embroidery. The chairs are upholstered with red plush. The crystal lusters are reflecting the soft light in glimmering patterns like the afternoon sun playing on the waves of a lake. The walls are adorned with original paintings and a musician's fingers dance on the ivory and ebony of an elegant antique piano.

Imagine the table by the window, looking out at a busy London street, the sight of people hurrying outside making the leisure of luxurious dining even more pronounced.

Imagine two beings sitting at that table. One is wearing a beige coat and a tartan bowtie and his eyes are closed in delight as he puts the first bite of the dessert into his mouth. The other is dressed in a dark grey tuxedo that makes the braid of his fiery hair stand out against its fabric. He's turning a glass of wine in his hand, but his gaze is on the silver fork sliding out between the other one's lips in a smooth movement.

Do you have it?

Now keep the image of the two beings and discard all the rest.

There is no fancy restaurant. The tables with linen tablecloths are placed between the trees, the clay oil lamps hung like lanterns above and reflecting on the surface of a narrow, quickly running stream. That stream, together with the rustling of leaves, provides the music. You can keep the paintings from the original image, but they are hanging from the trees. The dessert and wine are there as well, although wine is probably a too generous term for the brown-red liquid in the glasses.

All the rest of the scene is what the two beings are imagining.

"That's really delightful! Please send my regards to the chef!" Aziraphale exclaims as he finishes the desert, licking the fork that's not actually silver, but golden. They found a little gold nugget in this very stream, so now they can have metal - but only gold. They have golden dining utensils, golden buttons and combs, golden washbasin and dish rack… Gold would not stand as a currency in Eden. Cheese would. Neither of them have yet figured out how to make something passable for cheese from the available options. But they have all eternity.

Aziraphale shifts in the chair and adjusts his bowtie. His fingers linger on the fabric. There is a memory in it. A memory of dyeing the yarn and weaving the tartan together, Crowley's slender fingers between the threads on the loom. It isn't the tartan Aziraphale used to wear since shortly after the invention of tartan. It's a new one, more black and red intertwining with the beige and grey, and a little hint of honey-gold. Crowley is also wearing it on the underside of his collar, and didn't even protest much. Aziraphale already thinks of it as _our own side_ tartan.

Crowley watches the angel's manicured fingers (his own work) and subconsciously takes a gulp of wine.

He spits it out immediately and makes a disgusted face. "Ugh! Bless it!"

Aziraphale chuckles. "It's not _that_ bad, dear."

"It tastes like that cheap boxed stuff from the bottom shelf of a supermarket! I figured out how to make chocolate without proper milk, bless it, why does the wine refuse to cooperate? Humans started making it as soon as they found out those funny purple berries can ferment! They found out that some things can ferment even sooner than they found they are edible!"

"They only perfected it with time, though. I remember the early wine being much like this. For the proper one you need to get a lot of things right, I believe. The time, the temperature, oxygen content in the barrel… And the right kind of those little fungi that make the alcohol in it."

"Right. Probably not the right kind that we have. Got any plans for tomorrow, angel?"

Aziraphale shifts in the chair. "I thought we could go see the new play at East End in the evening."

"Oh?" Crowley raises his eyebrows. "I've heard rumors about someone working on a new script. It's already finished?"

"Well, yes," Aziraphale nods with a modest blush. He has been working on it for the last few weeks and of course Crowley knows it. Of course East End is a part of Eden, just like Mayfair and Soho, and of course it's not really a performance, just Aziraphale reading the script dramatically. Keep the image of the two beings and imagine all the rest, like they do.

At first, Aziraphale only wrote the scripts of plays he has memorized, inspired by Crowley's foundations of his growing library. But he missed getting to read or watch something new and there was nobody around to write it. It wasn't as easy for him as painting for Crowley, but he found it helped him to sort his thoughts. His scripts are not perfect, and it was hard to accept that they don't need to be. But Crowley is an appreciative audience.

"Great, I hope we can get some good tickets," the demon exclaims.

"I already made the reservation," Aziraphale smiles, shifting a little from side to side.

"Would you mind helping me hunt for the right microscopic alcohol-making mushrooms in the morning or do you need more time to… pick a suit for the evening?"

"Oh, I got my suit ready." (read: the script is complete to my satisfaction) "Sure I can help you with mushroom hunting, dear. Pick me up when you want to go."

Crowley nods. "Bill, please!" he calls to a non-existent waiter, a little rude in such a fancy restaurant, but he is a demon and can't be too nice in public.

"Lift home?" he asks Aziraphale.

Aziraphale adjusts his coat. "That would be very welcome."

They walk to the carpark. The path leading to it from the restaurant is paved with white stones. The carpark is paved with grey stones with white ones marking the individual parking places. And in the middle of it, taking up four places (very demonic) sits the Bentley.

Or something shaped like a Bentley, at least. It is made of wood and gold, painted black with soot mixed in oil. The paint still stains a little, so Crowley is careful while opening the door for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale sits down on the cotton upholstery, wiggling a bit and waiting for Crowey to take the wheel.

"Mind how you drive, dear."

"Well the traffic is pretty slow. Time to speed it up a bit." Crowley presses the pedal to the ground.

Nothing happens, of course. The Bentley stays in place while the angel and demon imagine the way through London traffic. And if the angel's imagination is not fully on par with the demon's and his expression is less fearful than it would be at the speed that the demon is currently imagining, it can't be held against him. He still shifts on the seat and sighs with relief when Crowley hits the brake and climbs out to open the door for him.

"Can I walk you home?" Crowley asks and offers his arm like a true gentleman.

Aziraphale takes it, but he's fidgeting a little.

Crowley looks at him sideways, but doesn't say anything. He leads him along another white path, lined with roses.

They are in Soho now - the part of Eden where Aziraphale's cottage stands.

"Thank you, dear. Would you like to come in for a while?" Aziraphale asks when they arrive at the door and scratches his shoulder absently. It's not a rhetorical question. Sometimes one or both of them get too overwhelmed by each other's company and need some time alone. But Aziraphale asks now, which means he is all right with Crowley staying.

"Yes, gladly," Crowley nods. It's not a default polite answer, either. If he didn't feel like staying, he would decline, even if Aziraphale wants him to. In this, they are being very honest with each other. He lets Aziraphale open the door for him.

They walk inside. Aziraphale lights the oil lamps and changes his shoes for soft slippers. The shoes he puts next to the door are made from several layers of starched linen - they figured out the shoe pattern and material together.

Crowley does not change his shoes because he's not wearing any. "Angel," he says, "do you mind showing me your wings?"

"My wings?" Aziraphale looks at him in confusion. And then it hits him. "Oh. Right. My back has been itching for the whole day. Do you think…"

"If you bring them forth, we shall see."

"Right," Aziraphale nods a bit nervously. After a moment's hesitation, he unfolds his wings.

"There they are," Crowley smiles.

Aziraphale curls his wings in front of himself to see. The previously bald patches are all strewn with pin feathers, just emerging from the skin, covered in waxy sheaths.

"Yes. It would seem so." Aziraphale doesn't even try to hide the relief in his voice. "Finally. I was starting to doubt…"

"I wasn't."

"Itches like hell, though."

"I know," Crowley smiles sympathetically. "Would you let me…"

"Yes, please," Aziraphale sits down backwards on the chair, trustful and vulnerable with his wings out.

Crowley is still smiling to himself as he takes another chair and carefully scratches the irritated skin, avoiding the sensitive new feathers with the exception of those few that are grown enough to have the sheath removed.

Aziraphale sighs contentedly.

Crowley then aligns and smoothens the old feathers. Some of them are singed by fire or missing parts of the vane. A few are getting loose, indicating that new feathers will replace them soon. One stays in Crowley's hand as he touches it. The tip is broken off, the vane dented like some vicious animal took a bite of it.

His fingers clutch around the shaft, trembling a little.

Aziraphale turns his head when the touch on his wings stops.

"Crowley?" he asks quietly.

Then he tucks in the wings and turns fully.

He envelops Crowley's clenched hand in both of his.

Golden eyes meet his gaze. Nothing is hiding them. Sunglasses have not been invented in Eden yet, and aren't planned to be invented anytime soon.

Aziraphale leans closer. His breath tickles Crowley's lips.

Lips that part a little.

Aziraphale leans even closer. Their lips are touching now: not pressed together, just two points of light, delicate touch and the shared breath between them.

Crowley exhales and pulls Aziraphale closer with his free hand.

Aziraphale lets go of his hand to find a better hold in an embrace and the damaged feather falls to the floor.

The kiss feels like letting go of something broken to be replaced with something new.

* * *

Black and white feathers are stretched out on the grass, open wings basking in the rays of afternoon sun.

"Are you sure about this?" asks the demon lying on the left of the angel.

"Yes, dear," the angel replies. "Absolutely sure. But if you don't want to..."

"I just need to know. Would you want this even without..."

"Yes. I probably wouldn't have gotten the idea, though. But if I did, I would want it."

Aziraphale sits up and takes Crowley's hand. He presses it to his chest. His torso is naked and the scar over his heart that he leads Crowley's hand to is pale and a bit shiny, rising above the surrounding skin.

"I would like to bear a mark that says I am yours. But this one is wrong. It was forced on both of us. I want it done right. Will you, please?"

"Yes," Crowley says. "I will. If you do the same for me."

"It won't be as pretty, I fear. You are much better at this. I'm more for words than pictures."

"I don't care if it's pretty. It's from you. And I would like you to do it first, if you don't mind. I want to be yours at the time I mark you as mine again, properly."

"I'm a bit nervous," Aziraphale admits. "What if I mess it up?"

"You can't mess it up. I want it exactly as you do it."

That reassures Aziraphale. "Alright, dear. Lie down and close your eyes. You can take a nap, it will take a while."

And it does. Aziraphale traces the patterns on Crowley's skin carefully, until he's satisfied with them. Then he takes a bottle with coal ink and a golden needle.

It takes days. Crowley sleeps through most of it, or watches Aziraphale's focused face. There's almost no pain - just a little prick as the needle pierces the skin, but it's healed immediately. Aziraphale's miracles returned with the new feathers and he can use them to make the process as painless as possible. By Crowley's peaceful expression as he drools a little in his sleep, it's effective.

Aziraphale pierces the skin one last time, carefully placing the last drop of ink. He admires his work for a while, proud of it despite his initial worries. Then he miracles a shirt for Crowley, covering the picture, before he wakes the demon with a kiss.

"Mhm…" Crowley opens his eyes and after Aziraphale's lips withdraw, he looks at his chest.

"Oi!" he mutters in protest. "You bastard!"

Aziraphale grins smugly. "No peeking, dear. Do mine first."

Crowley pouts. "You are asking for a rushed job so I can satisfy my curiosity, you know that?"

"I know you wouldn't rush," Aziraphale smiles and he is right.

Crowley is very careful, tracing the scar with his fingers, making sure that it doesn't hurt anymore and he will do no harm by covering it in ink. His findings seem satisfactory, and so he takes the ink and needle.

He's tense with the first prick, but Aziraphale is looking at him, smiling. The smile is excited, reassuring Crowley more than anything that Aziraphale really wants this and is looking forward to the result.

It reassures him that the mark is welcome.

He finds his pace, slowly covering the scar that his hand was forced to make (and the fact that he can accept it was forced even though Satan just guided it tells how far he already got, Aziraphale would say). He's covering it with a mark that is wanted and made freely, washing the taste of guilt from his fingertips.

Aziraphale does not sleep. He watches Crowley's face, his expression reassuring and proud.

After the last drop of ink, Crowley doesn't say anything. He just leans back and traces the fresh but healed tattoo with his fingers. Aziraphale's chest is rising and sinking under them, his heartbeat strong and steady.

Aziraphale sits up and starts unbuttoning Crowley's shirt. They are looking each other in the eyes. Crowley shifts to help Aziraphale with removing the shirt completely.

"Can I look?" Crowley asks.

"Yes."

Then something strange happens. There is a moment of mixed black and white. The colors don't fade into grey but create patterns, like black veins in white marble. And in the next moment, a demon is sitting on the angel's place and an angel sits where a demon has been a moment ago.

Crowley looks through Aziraphale's eyes and sees his own bare chest. Reaching from his shoulders to his heart, there are tattooed angelic wings, positioned around him like in an embrace.

"Oh…" he exhales softly.

Instead of lines, the feathers are drawn with words. 6000 years worth of unsaid words, suppressed for the sake of safety, unable to be said aloud for the fear of consequences… words of hope and companionship and love, whispered against Crowley's skin in a touch of angelic wings.

Aziraphale looks through Crowley's eyes and sees his own bare chest. There is a snake coiled above his heart, obsidian scales glistening in the sun. It is not possessive though, not menacing like the scar had been. It is gentle and protective, and his heart feels safe under it as the snake holds it in a careful embrace.

They stay like that for a long time, watching through each other's eyes. Crowley moves closer to read the words embedded into his skin. Aziraphale moves closer to admire the details on the snake's scales. Closer and closer until the wings embrace the snake and lips connect like a bridge for essences to mix.

For a while, they linger in the middle, touching lightly. They return to their own bodies, but can't bring themselves to separate their lips… and so they continue kissing. There's nothing easier at the moment, nothing that would feel more right.

Aziraphale's fingers slide into Crowley's hair, parting the waves like the keel of a ship. Crowley's hands are on his back, pulling him closer. Closer and down, and then they are lying in the grass, intertwined limbs and bare skin touching… the hands, the arms, the chests. It's not enough, not enough of touching skin. The trousers go down, hastily and clumsily, forcing an interruption of the kiss.

When it resumes, it's Crowley kissing Aziraphale's neck and Aziraphale's hand on the small of Crowley's back and the little jolt of making an effort, for the first time since what seems like another world and reality. Wings are touching and groins are touching and Aziraphale's nostrils are full of the unique spicy scent that is Crowley, earthy and smokey and heady like strong wine and Crowley tastes Aziraphale on his lips, cardamom and myrrh and jasmine, the warmth under his fingers, the holiness sending little sparkles into his fingertips but not hurting and it has been so long, so long since they opened themselves to the other one so completely. There is an earthquake somewhere on the ocean floor and a wave is building, rising from the depths, a wall of natural force cresting with white foam and it has been so long, so long a light touch is enough, the wave of pleasure spills over their bodies, swallowing every conscious thought.

But it's not enough, not enough closeness. The wave does not abate but rises like steam into the sky and lines blur between bodies and minds, black and white marble, light mixing with smoke, inhale and exhale of the universe, the thrumming pulse of melodies - drums and violins in harmony and knowing, _knowing_ the other one as completely as oneself, opening so fully that there are no secrets, no thoughts hidden from the other one. But there's no other one here, only them, together. There is pain and darkness hiding in the light and guilt mixed within the shadows, there are scars and echoes of screams and shards of mirrors.

And there is reassurance and acceptance, caressing the scars, kissing the shards, love reflecting infinitely between mended mirrors. There is complete trust, spreading like balm over all sharp edges. There is a union of opposites that contain a seed of each other at heart.

The pleasure surges like clouds and returns like rain. There is the feeling of starry sky under the fingertips and the sound of cinnamon, the taste of the Moonlight sonata on wine-stained lips.

And then it is dark, gibbous moon shining in the sky above and they are lying next to each other in the grass, a moment of confusion about which body is whose, the tangled limbs and thoughts. They can feel each other's pulse under the skin, ripples like electricity running through their wings and limbs. Breath is quickened, bodies like coiled springs, full of energy of their union, every cell drunk on it, singing.

They watch each other and then they laugh and spring into the air, beats of black and white wings, releasing that energy in the thrill of flight, chasing each other and dancing in the air, naked bodies caressed by wind.

The no-flight zone forms a dome above Eden, they find out. They fly as high as they can, circling around each other like birds of prey, watching the moonlit dunes spreading in every direction behind the walls.

Suddenly Aziraphale tenses, watching in one direction. He swoops down and lands on the top of the wall and Crowley follows immediately.

"Angel?"

Aziraphale points at a dark dot crawling over the silvery dunes. "Someone is coming."


	30. Journalism

The rising sun paints the desert in pink shades and long shadows. A jeep appears on the top of a dune, then sinks over its crest in a cloud of sand. 

There is a screeching noise, a wheel sinking into the sand and turning futilely.

The motor is turned off, then started anew. The screeching noise continues.

A sigh. "Are we stuck again?" 

"It's not my fault! If you were doing your job as a navigator…"

"If you were looking where you are going…"

"Well I can't really see behind a dune, can I?"

"And what am I supposed to do with that as a navigator, eh, egghead?"

"Well you can grab the shovel and get us unstuck, for example."

"Hmpf. I may also shove it up your ass. Remind me why we only brought one shovel?" With that grumbling, a figure in a long black and yellow coat steps out of the car and opens the boot. They take out the shovel and start digging the sand around the wheels, taking their time.

"Oh for heaven's sake, give it here!" Another figure opens the driver's door. It's a bald, seemingly young man in white pants and a green jacket with a golden pin on the collar. He takes the shovel and does a marginally faster job at using it while the other one watches with a smug expression. 

The one in the black and yellow coat is a demon, a Duke of Hell called Musdur. When the sand is leveled around the wheels, they place a cut piece of carpet in front of each wheel while the one in a green jacket, an ordinary angel named Zadkiel, takes the driver's seat and starts the car. 

The wheels turn futilely for a moment, but then get friction and the car moves again. 

They get stuck twice more before they get to the massive walls, and pause once more to refill the cooler. 

Finally Zadkiel stops the car under the walls and looks up. 

"Ahem," he says.

"Ahem. What was the plan for getting there again?"

"I don't think we got that far."

"Riiiight." Musdur opens the door and steps out of the car. 

Zadkiel follows, looking left and right along the wall. "I thought there were supposed to be gates here. Four gates, ideally…"

"Uhm. Only I don't see any."

"Maybe on the other side.”

They get back into the car and drive along the walls. 

"No gate," Zadkiel says when they get to the same place they started from.

"No gate," Musdur confirms. 

"We would need a really long ladder."

"Yeah. And a much bigger car to carry it. About the size of a Mack Titan road train."

Zadkiel's eyes shine. 

"No," Musdur mutters. "Don't even think about it. Imagine trying to get that thing unstuck from the sand, no thanks."

"What will we do then?"

"Well, let's just ask if anyone's home, shall we?"

"I guess that's an option too," Zadkiel shrugs and puts his hands like an megaphone in front of his mouth. 

"Hello?" he calls. "Is anybody there?"

He gets no reply. 

"We are from the Escalator! We just want to ask a few questions!"

Silence.

"Are you there, Commander Aziraphale? It's me, Zadkiel! I served in your platoon. You probably don't remember me..."

"Zadkiel? Of course I do, dear boy!" sounds from the top of the wall, followed by: "Angel! We were supposed to stay quiet!"

"I'm sorry dear, but it's Zadkiel and… oh."

There is silence at the top of the wall again.

At first Zadkiel is too excited to register the reason. "Oh, they _ are _ there!" he turns to Musdur. "We found them! We really found them! See? I told you they would be fine!"

Then he notices the silence. Musdur is pointing at themselves, their eyebrows raised. 

"Ah. Dammit," Zadkiel murmures. "I forgot."

He puts his hands to his mouth again. "We mean no harm!" he calls. "This is Duke Musdur. I know you have a… rather close acquaintance with them, but they were just doing their job, nothing personal! We are both journalists now! Strictly neutral!"

The top of the wall keeps its silence.

"We would just like some answers, that's all! Then we will leave you alone if you want!"

No response.

"We can wait! We will wait, okay? Take your time to think about it! No hurry!"

He waits a while longer, but when no reply comes, he sighs and sits down in the car. 

Musdur joins him after a moment. "So. Nice mess up. What now, egghead?"

"And whose fault is it? You should have stayed in the car! Now we wait."

And they wait. 

As the sun travels across the sky, they move the car along the walls to stay in the shade. Zadkiel has the feeling that someone is moving along with them at the top of the wall, but is maybe just imagining it because he can't really sense any presence through the no-miracle field that surrounds Eden.

This is not the first time they have ventured into the desert. They are prepared, with pieces of carpet to put in front of the tires if the car gets stuck and a shovel for the same reason - but only one, to fit more supplies into the light 4x4 jeep. Because in the no-miracle field, their bodies need water and nourishment. 

They share sandwiches and drink the water from the bottles in a big cooling container, as sparingly as they can. 

"This is pointless," Musdur says three days later, when they are running out of both. "We should just leave them alone, clearly they don't want to talk. Ah, and we have the last two sandwiches. Ham and cheese or avocado?"

"Avocado."

"Excuse me, you have cheese?" a voice sounds from the top of the wall. 

Zadkiel almost drops the sandwich that Musdur just gave him. "Uhm. Yes. Want some?"

There is a long silence.

"How about wine?" another voice asks.

"Sorry, no wine. But we can get it, if you want!"

Another long silence.

"No, cheese is fine."

A rope ladder is thrown from the top of the wall, but not lowered enough to reach the ground yet.

"So, our conditions. You stay on the outer side of the wall. We'll make a platform for you, but try anything and it drops down."

"Fine," Zadkiel agrees. 

"Second. No photos, no recording. You give us all your cameras, phones and everything else that can be used for it and you are not getting it back." Zadkiel recognizes the speaker's voice as Crowley's.

"No writing, either," Aziraphale adds. "If you want answers, you'll have to remember them."

There is silence on Zadkiel and Musdur's side now as they are debating the condition quietly. 

"Agreed!" calls Musdur after a moment.

"And third," Crowley continues, "bring the cheese. No cheating."

"The ham too."

"Right, angel. The ham too."

"Here's the whole sandwich," Musdur raises it in their hand. 

The rope ladder is lowered and Zadkiel takes the sandwich and starts climbing first.

While he does, a little balcony-like construction slides down from the top of the wall. 

Zadkiel reaches it and climbs inside. It’s made of wood and secured by a rope bound on the other side of the battlement. He understands quickly that the line of the no-miracle field must run there. If they try anything, the rope gets cut and the balcony crashes down. He wonders if his corporation would survive such a fall.

They are waiting there, an angel and a demon, side by side. Looking much better than last time Zadkiel saw them. Their wings are out, ready to take off at any moment. They are wearing clothes similar to those he saw many times on the archive photos and Earth surveillance records, although some shades and materials are a bit off and Crowley is not wearing sunglasses, his serpentine eyes fully revealed and gleaming dangerously.

"Don't cross that line. Put the sandwich and all your recording devices on the tray," Crowley says in a business-like tone. There's indeed a golden tray prepared on the balcony, laid just across a line marked with red colour.

Zadkiel thinks it a bit too paranoid, but then realizes that if Satan and all of the Upper and Lower management is hunting for you, being paranoid is very reasonable. Suddenly he's starting to doubt whether they will get out of this alive. He doesn't let those thoughts show, though, just obeys and steps back.

Musdur enters the platform at the same time and takes out the smartphone and microphone from their coat pockets.

Aziraphale tenses with the sight of the demon, his breath getting faster and shallow.

Crowley takes his hand reassuringly. "It's all right, he said they were just doing their job. I don't even remember them."

"But I do," Aziraphale murmurs, but then takes a deep breath and relaxes a little, pressing Crowley's hand.

Crowley reaches with his other hand and pulls the tray to their side behind the red line.

"Careful, I just bought that camera. It got a 26.2 megapixels full frame," Zadkiel mutters. 

Aziraphale watches the things on the tray and seems a bit unsure about which one is the camera. "Uh, alright?"

"Now. Explanations," Crowley interrupts. "What the heaven are you doing here, how the hell did you find us and what the fuck is the Escalator."

"Well… that's a rather long story, actually," Zadkiel says. "So, remember the War, right? I've been in the Flaming Sword platoon, you see, and…"

"Cut it, egghead," Musdur snarls. "It was these want ads about a job in the torture department that were all over Hell…"

"...and when that censored version of the thing was shown on all the screens in Heaven, I just knew there was something off about it…"

"...something off about that torture, but I just couldn't put my finger on why…"

Aziraphale is pressing his temples. "Gentlemen, please! One after the other. Zadkiel, do you mind starting? I am familiar with the War, so from that censored show, if you don't mind."

And so Zadkiel speaks and then Musdur speaks until the moment where their stories align. 

Aziraphale and Crowley listen and sometimes it looks like it's too much, too raw, their hands seeking each other, pressing so hard that it looks painful (but it's not; invulnerability spell, Musdur remembers), their wings touching in a way that it makes Musdur feel some strange things (that they now understand better thanks to Zadkiel and working for an independent medium). But they listen and ground each other and reassure each other with touch and don't interrupt the unlikely pair of narrators.

"So I got the tapes and a few copies of the latest issue of Infernal Times, and after the next episode of the show… and it was a bad one, with Aziraphale crying and saying what a terrible angel he is but it wasn't on the tapes from below so I assume it must have been taken above while my colleague here was busy with torturing Crowley…"

"Yes," Aziraphale says quietly.

"Thought so," Zadkiel nods sympathetically. "You were already gone by then, but Heaven was quite behind with the show, the censorship must have taken a long time. Well, I mixed the newspapers between the Celestial Observers, but I had to somehow tell the truth to our platoon. They were all really confused and sympathetic, but the idea that the Archangels had been lying to us had not occurred to them. If I hadn't met with Musdur, I wouldn’t have believed that either. But I managed to find a service on Earth that burns the tapes on DVDs and we watched those in little groups when Caliel had a solo shift in Earth surveillance… remember Caliel?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale nods. “So she’s working in Earth surveillance now? She always had great attention to detail.”

“Well, actually she’s doing politics now, but I’ll get to that later. It was quite a lot to take in, you know. For 6000 years you believe that your superiors actually… I don’t know… care. That they wouldn’t lie to you or use you as they see fit… and then you find out how much they have been twisting the truth for their own goals.”

Aziraphale nods sympathetically. “Yes, I can imagine.”

“There were some who just wanted to storm to your rescue before the video was over. I had to forcefully sit them down and explain that you somehow… rescued yourselves. That was really impressive, Commander, took us a few rewatches to figure out what actually happened.”

“Who? Ah, you mean me? Well… thank you, I guess…” Aziraphale blushes a little and Crowley smiles proudly. 

“Yes…. well, they couldn’t storm to your rescue, so they wanted to storm the Archangels’ office.”

“Uh-hm,” Crowley mutters. “Not a good idea.”

“Yes, that’s what Caliel pointed out too. She said we needed more angels on our side to even attempt something like that. And somehow it went from there…”

“How somehow?” Crowley asks a bit skeptically. 

“Infernal Times was full of speculations and theories about the two of you, so when it... _ somehow _... started showing up in Heaven, even those who were going to burn it with holy fire did take a peek before. More people started to carry the Flaming Sword insignia, not just those from our platoon… I hope it’s alright?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, dear.” Aziraphale nods, a bit stunned by it all. 

“Good, good. Because then we leaked the videos on the Ætherealnet and even more angels started to carry them.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says faintly. 

“And Infernal Times was not enough, even when I started writing for it under an alias. The demons were curious about the explanation for what they saw as well. So we put together a small team of a few angels and demons and founded the Escalator. The first truly neutral journal.”

“Wow. And nobody ripped out your intestines for it?” Crowley asks.

“There were a few incidents. But we’ve got journalist passes now.”

“Ooooh-kay,” Crowley nods, but doesn’t seem like he knows what the angel is talking about.

“For a new body,” Musdur supplies. "Abridged paperwork."

"Well, that's handy, I guess," Aziraphale says. "But really, the Archangels? They’re allowing it?"

"If they didn't, it would seem like they have something to hide."

"They certainly do, though." 

"They do have their own version for everything, of course. That's what the Celestial Observer is for. Many still believe what's written there."

"Oh," Aziraphale murmures faintly. "It's… strife in Heaven, then? Because of us? Of me? I did not want this…"

Crowley wraps him closer in one black wing. "They brought it upon themselves."

"It was long overdue, if you ask me," Musdur says. "They're going to have elections soon, it's gonna be fun."

"Elections." Crowley tastes the word like the first mouthful of a suspicious meal.

"Yes. Caliel is leading the Flaming Sword party."

“If she wants to win, she should change that name,” Aziraphale murmurs.

Crowley glances at him, but doesn’t say anything to it. "But… the Archangels?” he asks instead. “In Hell you could climb the ranks, sure, but I thought in Heaven they were given?" 

"It's a title, not rank," Aziraphale explains quietly. "You know, like captain can be a rank under the mayor, but also the Captain of a ship. Gabriel's a seraph, for example. Sandalphon is a regular archangel and that's even below principalities, but he got the Archangel title for his… uhm... merits."

"I see," Crowley nods thoughtfully. "Well, it's a better solution than a bloody revolution, and I know what I'm talking about."

Aziraphale nods and absently rubs his wrists. 

"Will you give us your version of the story, then?" Zadkiel asks. "For the Escalator. It might help to sway some undecided voters."

"Strictly neutral, eh?" Crowley smirks. 

"Well, neutral on the Heaven-Hell axis. There's a complete archive in that tablet," Zadkiel points at the heap of gadgets on the golden tray. "You might get a better idea from that. We have weekly double pages on empathy and understanding different feelings for demons and columns on human culture and arts for angels. We even got some human correspondents recently."

"That, and a lot of politics," Musdur admits.

"Right. So you want an interview with us to help your cause, yes?" Crowley asks suspiciously. And if Heaven is like this, what's going on in Hell?"

"Nothing much,” Musdur admits. “It seems that God doesn’t really care for the political situation in Heaven, so things can change, if there is will for it. But we’ve got our Boss right there. Questions are allowed, so he lets the Escalator be, but nobody would dare to cross Him.”

"I see,” Crowley says quietly, words like stones sinking into a bottomless chasm. “How did you even find us here?” 

“We limited the search to Earth," Musdur explains. "There was a huge search from Hell's side…"

"...not from Heaven's because officially you haven't escaped," Zadkiel interrupts.

"Yeah. Just the Archangels. But demons popping everywhere. After they searched the whole planet, they assumed you were somewhere in the stars and focused their attention there. It has mostly died down already, they got bored of it. But we thought you wouldn't leave Earth. If your presence wasn't felt anywhere on it, it had to mean you were in some isolated bubble of reality… found it or created it. You weren't in the Tower of Babel, so it was either Atlantis or here. Took us a few months to find the right desert and the way here. You were the only ones who have actually been here and knew where this place is."

“Not anymore,” Aziraphale whispers, more stones sinking into some dark place.

"Well, there was also some speculation about you being dead, actually," Zadkiel adds, not noticing the tone. "It wasn't clear from the video, but it looked a bit like hellfire that you got burnt with, Commander. Caliel thought that Crowley would seek holy water for himself if that were true. She thought it was very romantic."

Crowley makes a disgusted face. 

"But then we did an interview with a demon who was at your trial, and he confirmed that you are immune to it."

"Yes, we are," Crowley nods slowly, with his best poker face. "So the search died down already? They gave up?"

"Well… Lord Beelzebub is still looking," Musdur says. "Rumours are that Boss is keeping them on a short leash."

"Not doing anything Himself," Crowley murmures. "Typical. So, nobody would have found us. If you two hadn’t come looking for a story.” He wipes his face with his hand, not hiding his frustration. “Are you aware of what happens if you reveal that you know where we are? Are you aware of what He will do? First to you, if you refuse to tell Him, and then to us?"

"We won't endanger you," Zadkiel says hastily. "Trust me, please. We won't reveal we met you. We will make up another source, make it perfectly safe for you. We would be going against ourselves if we allowed your capture."

Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a look, tired and knowing. They are thinking about causes for revolutions, about martyrs and icons. But Zadkiel and Musdur don't know anything of that, they haven't been around humanity for so long. 

But then Aziraphale looks somewhere beyond the walls of Eden and Crowley follows his look. They relax a little as some quiet understanding passes between them. Tentatively, Aziraphale nods. 

Crowley sighs. "Fine. We can answer a few questions." He conjures two chairs and a cup. "Tea, angel?"

Aziraphale sits next to him. "Thank you, dear. But we are being impolite to our guests. Would you like some tea as well?"

"No, we are fine," Zadkiel replies hastily, still feeling slightly paranoid about their chances of getting away with the interview. The sun is high in the sky and he is thirsty watching Aziraphale sipping the tea, but he finds it safer to not accept. 

He clears his throat. "So, tell us your perspective of the cancelled Apocalypse, please. Why did you think there doesn't need to be a war and what did you do to prevent it?"

They tell him, answering the questions as well as they can. It is nice, having someone who listens. Someone who cares about their opinions. It is flattering, being recognized. 

Some questions they avoid by talking around (Z: "How did you get the idea to have the Antichrist raised by humans and use Warlock Dowling as a ruse?"), some they don't answer (M: "How would you rate the torture that has been administered to you, and the individual torturers?"), but most they answer honestly, having nothing to hide anymore. 

It's almost dark when Musdur and Zadkiel thank them for the interview and take their leave.

* * *

An angel and a demon are standing on the walls of Eden, watching a jeep disappear in the distance between the moonlit dunes. 

"You missing the world?" Crowley asks quietly.

"A bit," Aziraphale admits. "The humans, mostly."

"Yeah… And the ducks."

"But we can't return there and I don't mind. You are my world."

Crowley smiles, pressing the angel's hand. "And you are mine."

"Still… it was nice to talk to them, wasn't it? Zadkiel is a good lad and it seems that Musdur isn't as bad as I thought, either."

"Yes. A nice talk."

Aziraphale sighs. "It's almost a pity they refilled their water bottles from the Lethe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caliel is from Aziraiphale's story [Sunray, Take me Away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20688755/chapters/49140137), where, just like here, Aziraphale is punished by Heaven but there are some angels who are sympathetic with him. I gave her a bit different job, though :)


	31. Devil in the details

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't expect a torture warning here, did you? Here it is, but in the same time, this is one of my favourite chapters from the whole story. I fear I can’t say more without spoilers though... If you want to skip the torture, you could start reading at the section break.  


There is an angel in Hell. It seems that he's been there for a while already. Or maybe not, just got a lot of attention. His once green jacket is hanging in dirty, bloody tatters. His lips are cracked and swollen, one eye forced shut by a purple-black bruise. The other one is fixed on the imposing figure of the Lord of Hell, sitting on a throne of bones. 

The room is smaller than Satan’s official audience hall, more private. There is an office desk in the corner, with a turning chair and a desktop computer. The only other pieces of furniture are the throne and the rack in front of it. They are alone there - the angel and the personification of Evil.

Until another demon enters the room and bows deeply. "My Lord, you called for me?"

"Ah, Duke Musdur," Satan smiles. "I've been told you are the expert on extracting information from angels."

"That's correct, your Lowness." They glance at the angel bound to the rack. Silvery bonds prevent him from healing himself or daring a miraculous escape. 

"Good. Because it seems everyone here is a self-proclaimed torture expert, but when it comes to extracting actually useful information, it's all false advertisement."

The demon circles the angel, appraising him. They study the deep bloody gashes on his back and the welts on his torso. The gashes look a bit like claw marks of some animal with burning paws. Three fingers are missing on the angel’s left hand.

"With all due respect, your Lowness, you should have called for me right away. I prefer working with fresh material."

"You will work as I tell you," Satan snarls.

"Of course," Musdur says hastily. "Just tell me what kind of information you wish to extract and I will get to work."

"This angel presumably knows the location of the traitors Aziraphale and Crowley," Satan says, leaning back on His throne. 

Musdur nods. "I offer absolute certainty. If he possesses the information, I will extract it. If he doesn't, we will know that for sure after I am done."

"Good. Get to work, then."

“First I must assess the situation and make some preparations. But I will get to the actual interrogation shortly.”

“Fine, but don’t take too long,” Satan says impatiently, His hand resting on the handle of a whip. 

Musdur turns their attention to the angel - a sharp, clinically precise focus. They open a little suitcase they brought with them and take out sharp steel scissors. They cut the remnants of the green jacket and white trousers and remove them piece by piece until the angel is fully naked. He shivers a little, goosebumps rising on his sweaty skin. 

Musdur _ hmms _and pours a bit of liquid from a bottle on a cloth. He starts cleaning the dirt and blood with it, examining every part of the body thoroughly, sometimes even using a magnifying glass. 

Satan taps His hand on the handle of the whip impatiently, but Musdur does not seem to perceive that. As they are nearing the end of the examination, they take a good look into the angel’s eyes. The one that’s open, at least. They shake their head as if reminded of something and unable to pinpoint the memory. Then they shrug and lean into their suitcase for a long, sharp needle. 

The angel tenses, as if having some prior experience with the tool. His breath quickens.

Musdur tilts their head. “I believe you know the question,” they state. “The location of the traitors Aziraphale and Crowley. Do you want to give any statement about that before we begin? Not that I would take it as truth, but it’s good to have a reference point.”

The angel stays quiet, pressing his lips into a firm line. 

“Very well,” Musdur nods. “We will set that as a reference point.”

Then they start working. 

The needle is moving under the skin, a precise, intense point of agony. The angel is trembling, cold sweat running down his temples, but he doesn’t make a sound. 

Musdur doesn’t seem bothered by that. They work systematically, moving up from toes to fingertips (where available). 

“I see no results,” Saran interrupts.

Musdur blinks, as if they have forgotten about His presence. They take a deep breath, refocusing themselves, and only then turn away from the angel. “My Lord, I have barely started. I beg for your patience. Absolute certainty about the extracted information takes time. I do not want to keep you from anything else you wish to do, I can call you at a later stage when I’m closer to the goal if you want. This is just the foundation we are going to build upon, but it needs to be laid properly.”

“Ugh, fine,” Satan mutters. “I’ll work on something, let me know when you get close.” He moves from the throne to the chair behind the computer and turns it on. 

Musdur sighs in relief and turns back to the angel. “Where were we? Right, foundations…”

When they are finished with the needle, every nerve in the angel’s body feels raw, oversensitive. There are tears running down his cheeks, mixing with drops of sweat. He has not screamed yet. 

Musdur glances at Satan, but the Lord of Hell is not paying attention. He’s got one hand on the keyboard and the other one on the mouse and both are clicking furiously. 

“Take that, bloody paladin!” He mutters under His breath at one point. 

Musdur seems fine with that. They lean over the suitcase again and take a cylindrical tube. It is full of needles, a little shorter than the one they worked with until now. These needles go in one by one and they _ stay _. 

The angel remains quiet as the first one pierces a nerve. 

With the second one, he whimpers.

With the third one, he whimpers again.

With the fourth one, he screams.

Satan looks up from the computer screen but Musdur shakes their head: “Not yet.”

Satan shrugs and returns to whatever He was doing.

With every needle, the angel screams again and Musdur savours those screams, closing their eyes like a connoisseur taking a bite from a delicious meal. It does not influence the precision of their fingers as more and more needles pierce the angelic flesh and the screams merge into one long wail. 

After spending all the needles from the tube, Musdur takes a step back and admires their work. Needles are sticking from every part of the angel's body, from under his nails, even from the stumps of the missing fingers.

“So,” they say, “let’s try again. The location of the traitors. Take your time.”

The wailing turns to moans and whimpers as no new pain is added to the one flaring in the angel’s body. Musdur nods encouragingly. 

The angel presses his lips together.

Musdur smiles. They run their hand along the angel’s body, almost like a caress. A caress that moves the embedded needles, a wave of agony running along its path. 

The angel screams and writhes in the bonds, but that jostles the needles even more and he keeps screaming until he sags in exhaustion. 

Musdur licks their lips simultaneously with the salamander on their head, like tasting the screams. 

Then they lay their hand on the angel's shoulder again, light and gentle. They move it just a little, as if starting another caress along the needles. 

The angel trembles like an aspen leaf in the wind. "N-No… P-Please…"

Musdur smiles. "Where are the traitors?"

The angel sobs and presses his lips together.

Musdur runs their hand along the hurting body. Along the needles sticking from it.

The angel screams. "Beta Andromedae! They're at Beta Andromedae!"

Musdur smiles to themselves and withdraws their hand, making sure that the angel hears them. "Good, good. We are getting somewhere. Setting it as a new reference point. Very good job… what's your name?"

The angel sobs. "Z-Zadkiel," he whispers, the good eye boring into his tormentor. 

"Very good job, Zadkiel," Musdur says and continues the caress.

Zadkiel writhes and screams with the touch. Blood is seeping from the gashes on his back and running down his legs. Musdur watches it, not looking too pleased.

"A bit too soon for the blood phase for my taste, but we are doing well, so... fine," they mutter. 

They run their hand along the needles a few more times and then take a knife from the suitcase. It is small but highly polished and looks very, very sharp, with a little curve at the tip of the blade. The handle is ergonomic and textured for better grip. 

"No! No! I told you! Beta Andromedae!"

"I know," Musdur nods. "I took note of it, don't worry. You are doing very well."

And then the knife cuts into flesh. And deeper. 

It cuts to the bones. The curve at the end is ideal for cutting into the sensitive outer layer of periosteum. 

It keeps cutting into the bones in the right leg, moving up to the ribs while Musdur's other hand continues the caressing movement along the needles on the left side. 

Zadkiel's scream does not sound like one made by a human-shaped being.

"P-Please…" he sobs when Musdur withdraws. "I lied! I lied! I don't know where they are! Musdur, please…"

The demon's smile is full of sharp teeth. "Good, good. New reference point. You are doing very well, Zadkiel. Just a little longer."

"No! No, please! I can't…"

But the blade cuts again. 

There is no reprieve. The blade moves to the left side. The body under Musdur's hands is reduced to quivering flesh, slick with blood and steeped in so much pain there's no other thought left.

It goes on and on until finally, Musdur withdraws.

It takes some time for Zadkiel to become aware of his surroundings. 

Musdur waits.

"Good job, Zadkiel," they say when they are sure that the angel can perceive them. "Very, very good. And because you did so well, I'll allow you to tell me what I want to know."

The angel watches him without comprehension. 

Musdur only touches one needle, sticking out from the angel's neck. "The traitors," they say gently while Zadkiel weeps. "Aziraphale and Crowley. I'll allow you to tell me where they are now. It's a limited offer, though."

They lower the blade and touch the angel's chest with it. It is heaving with broken sobs.

"Eden!" Zadkiel cries out. "They are in Eden! Please…"

The demon caresses his cheek, touching no needles this time. "You are doing wonderfully, Zadkiel. This reference point is very close, I can feel it. Just a little longer, so we can be absolutely certain."

The relief in the angel's face is exchanged for pure horror. "No! No! I'm telling the truth! They're in Eden! Please! Plea…"

The blade pierces the flesh again and the pleas turn into inhuman screams. 

Satan is watching. 

He turned His attention from the screen to the angel some time ago and is now watching idly, leaning His chin on His hand. He seems interested in what's going on, not interrupting Musdur anymore. 

It goes on for a while before Musdur withdraws the blade almost lovingly and caresses the angel's cheek again. 

"Aziraphale and Crowley," they say when some of the pain clears from Zadkiel's eyes. "Where are they, Zadkiel?"

The angel sobs. "Eden! They are in Eden! Please, believe me! It's… it's in a reality bubble… no miracles… you need a jeep to get there! Please..."

Musdur smiles. "Very well, Zadkiel. I believe you."

Zadkiel weeps with relief.

Musdur turns to Satan and bows. "That was the truth, my Lord. I vouch for it."

Satan claps His hands thrice, as in appreciation of an artistic performance. 

Musdur bows again. "Would you like to take over, your Lowness?" they ask. "I could bring some refreshments."

"Hmm…. Very tempting," Satan drawls, looking at the angel's quivering body appreciatively. "Trying for a promotion, Duke Musdur?"

"Oh, I wouldn't dare…"

"Because it so happens that Prince Beelzebub failed me where you succeeded."

"Oh. Well…"

"Alright, Musdur. I will take a turn and then I believe we deserve some refreshments. Take care of that." Satan gets up and brandishes His whip. "Just something small, because then we have two traitors to deal with."

"Yes, your Lowness." Musdur takes their suitcase and leaves. They do not turn back at the crack of the whip and the pained scream of the angel.

* * *

There is a little kitchenette down the hall from Satan's office. Musdur enters it and looks around. They sniff the water in the coffee machine, then pour it out and replace it with fresh one from the tap. They sniff it again and pour it out as well. They use the water from a little plastic bottle in their suitcase instead. 

"Two sugarzzzz, one third of milk."

Musdur looks up. "Lord Beelzebub?"

The Prince of Hell is looking more dishevelled than usual, with a big pustulent sore across their whole cheek and their blouse’s collar dirty. 

"Make sure you get it right or He won't drink it," Beelzebub says and turns to leave.

"Err…. Thank you!" Musdur calls after them, but they are already gone. 

And then Musdur wonders if Beelzebub was telling the truth. At the end, they prepare the coffee with two sugars and one third of milk.

* * *

When they get back with the coffee and a selection of biscuits on a plate, Satan has already ruined almost all of the delicate work. The needles are out or broken, the angel's torso criss-crossed by deep, bloody lashes from the whip. Musdur tries very hard to not let anything show in their face.

"Coffee, my Lord," they announce, laying the tray on the computer table. 

Satan nods absently. He doesn't look at Musdur though, still focused on the angel. Zadkiel is not screaming anymore. His eyes are glossy and his head is falling limply to his chest. Satan cracks the whip once more and elicits a little jerk from the bleeding body. Only then does He turn away and look at the refreshments.

He takes a biscuit and one of the coffee cups and looks expectantly at Musdur.

The demon takes the hint, together with a biscuit and another cup.

"How's the coffee?" Satan asks.

Musdur takes a sip and nods appreciatively.

"I've been told there are no work benefits here, you know?" Satan scoffs. "Don't know what this is, then."

Musdur shrugs, indicating that they don't know either.

"Anyway," Satan continues, "we will need a good jeep. And enough explosives to tear down a thick wall. Hm…" He looks at the coffee and then smells it. He seems satisfied, because He takes a sip. Then He gets quiet. 

The silence stretches.

It seems as if Satan lost His train of thought. He watches the cup in His hands wonderingly.

"What… Where am I?" He asks then. In Enochian.

Musdur spits out the brown liquid they have been holding in their mouth and wipes it out carefully with a cloth. "Fuck, we did it!" they mutter.

They turn to Satan, who's looking around with a confused expression. 

“Who are you?” Satan asks.

"Wait here," Musdur tells Him shortly, in Enochian that’s a bit rusty. 

And Satan waits.

Musdur hurries to Zadkiel. "Hey… Hey, egghead…"

The angel doesn't react. 

Musdur touches his cheek gently. "Zadkiel?"

The angel moans and his one good eye slowly focuses on the demon's face. "Please… no more…" he whimpers.

"No more, I promise," Musdur soothes. "It's over, fledgeling. We did it, He drank it! You were amazing…"

Slowly the meaning of the words registers in Zadkiel's mind. His whole body sags with relief. 

"Sorry I didn't get here sooner," Musdur sighs. "Nobody just calls an expert right away, no, they have to try themselves first…"

"'tis fine... " Zadkiel whispers through bloody lips. "It was all rather… amateurish… until you came..."

"Oh, I bet."

"You were… impressive… Five stars…"

"Oh, thank you! A pleasure to torture you. You were wonderful too. But now we need to get you out of here. Ready?"

Zadkiel nods. “Please.”

"Good. I'll wait for you in the Escalator headquarters. Take as long as you need, okay?"

"See you there..." Zadkiel whispers, barely audible.

Musdur brushes his temple with gentle fingers. "See you, fledgeling." 

Then they take the long needle. 

One quick stab at the base of the skull and nothing hurts Zadkiel anymore.

Musdur's fingers linger on the body for a moment. Then they bend down to the pile of green tatters to collect a little golden pin, stained with blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 now has an [illustration](https://mirach.tumblr.com/post/616040998144966656/the-smell-of-burnt-feathers-is-making-the-air)!  
And if you would like to see something totally different from me, I started posting a silly photocomic titled [Food Omens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23723629/chapters/56968690) :)


	32. Persuasion

White curls like dandelion fluff lit by morning sun. Red waves of long hair, moving in the wind like snakes. An angel and a demon standing behind the battlements on the top of the wall of Eden, watching a jeep approaching over the dunes. It is not the same car as last time. It is bigger and doesn’t get stuck in the sand as much. 

“I can’t bear being captured again,” Aziraphale says. 

“We won’t.”

Aziraphale nods. “Here,” he whispers and gives Crowley a corked bottle. “I’m sorry that you’ll have to do all the work. I can’t control hellfire on my own.”

Crowley takes it. “It’s all right. You were right, dying is easy. Being left behind is what is hard. But I will join you right away, so it’s all right.”

They wait. 

“I’m glad we got the chance to be together, just for a while longer.”

“I’m glad too, angel.”

They wait, hand in hand. Sparks of hellfire are playing on the fingertips of Crowley’s free hand. A bottle with holy water waits on the ground just a step away. The cork is loose.

The jeep crosses Lethe without stopping and halts under the wall. 

Both doors open at once. 

From the driver's side, an angel steps out on the sand. He's wearing jeans and a green pilot jacket with broad shoulders, accessorized by sunglasses with golden frames and a pink silk scarf around his neck.

The sand on the other side crunches under the high boots of a demon - impressive things of steel and black leather. Above them is a skirt of black lace and a black leather jacket with yellow pockets, currently hiding the demon's hands.

"What the…" Crowley mutters.

"Hello?" Zadkiel calls. "We have good news! It's safe for you to return, if you want!"

Aziraphale and Crowley look at each other.

"Could be a trap," Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley nods. The fire sparkles on his fingers. It's getting harder to maintain the focus needed for channeling it. 

"And we've got wine!" Musdur adds. 

Crowley scoffs. "Well, it's them, at least."

"And they remember," Aziraphale whispers. 

"Not falling for it, though. Our last vintage was pretty good already, I dare to say."

"Of course, dear."

Crowley scowls. 

"It's safe, really!" Zadkiel tries further. "Satan doesn't remember you! He doesn't even remember His own name!"

Stunned, Aziraphale looks at Crowley. His face is reflecting a shy hope for the first time since they spotted the jeep. "The water from Lethe?" he whispers. "If they didn’t drink it but gave it to Him…"

Crowley's fingers tremble a little, the sparkles sizzling. _Satan doesn't remember you_. He would like to believe it, but the enormousness of that statement doesn't fit into his conscious mind. 

"And… they are clearly fraternizing. And not being punished," Aziraphale adds, as if trying to convince himself too, starting with something smaller he can see with his own eyes.

"Stay here, angel." Crowley says and climbs on the battlements. 

Aziraphale follows him.

"Is that true?" Crowley calls from the wall, the volume hiding the tremble of the words a bit. 

"Absolutely!" Musdur confirms. "He's only speaking Enochian and doesn't remember anything."

The hellfire on Crowley’s fingers sputters and dies. 

Aziraphale and Crowley look at each other. 

Musdur and Zadkiel see a flash of black and white, a flutter of wings and the top of the wall is empty and something tells them they are not being observed anymore. 

“You’ve scared them away!” Zadkiel hisses.

“No, you’ve scared them away, egghead!”

Zadkiel sighs. “Well, they got scared away in any case. Nothing to do but wait. Did you bring Scrabble?”

* * *

Aziraphale and Crowley land on the moss-covered rocks by the lower pool. This is where they used to sit together in silence. This is where they used to talk, finding the way to each other again, overcoming the memories together. Now they are silent again.

Aziraphale lays his hand on Crowley’s chest. The heartbeat is fast under his trembling fingers.

Crowley lays his hand over the top of Aziraphale’s. “Do we dare to hope?” he breathes out, not hiding the vulnerability in his voice from the angel.

Aziraphale sighs shakily. “I don’t know.”

They fall silent again and stay so for a long time, drumming heart under trembling fingers.

"Enochian," Aziraphale whispers. "They wouldn't know… would they?"

Crowley shakes his head helplessly. "I don't know, angel. I can't believe we could be free and safe from Him. It's too much to believe."

Aziraphale leans towards him, connecting their foreheads. "I find it hard to wrap my mind around, too. I'm sorry I cannot be strong for you this time."

"It's all right. I wouldn't ask that from you. We deserve some rest already, don't we? Maybe we deserve someone else being strong for us, just once."

"Someone else? Oh God, yes… But can we trust anyone?" Aziraphale sighs and lays his head into Crowley's lap tiredly.

Crowley leans over him, resting his head on the angel's chest. 

That's how they stay for hours while the sun travels the sky above. Leaning on each other, too tired to move, too tired to trust, too tired to hope. 

Finally Aziraphale moves. "Crowley?" he whispers. 

"Yes, angel?"

"Could we read the newspapers again?"

Crowley nods and snaps his fingers, summoning the tablet with all archive issues of the Escalator into his hand. 

"Which one do you want to read?" he asks. 

They have read it many times and know the contents by heart: the cultural blog with very random entries, ranging from fairy-tales to absurd drama, the column on human food and drinks, the double page on fresh and hip fashion styles for both angels and demons, some even universal, an empathetic glossary meant mostly for demons but often useful to angels as well (the digital version only has the description, but apparently the printed one had a miracled spot on the page that you could rub your wrist on to experience the feeling), torture tools reviews, the political commentaries painting Gabriel and the Archangels in a rather unfavourable light, interviews with the members of Aziraphale's platoon and with the demon who witnessed the hellfire trial, with Adam Young and Warlock Dowling and other humans who knew Aziraphale and Crowley. And of course, the detailed analysis of the footage that can be found at [[link]](https://flamingsword-omg.weebly.com/), pointing out all the differences in the censored version and offering commentaries and explanations that are often uncomfortably true. 

"Issue 38. The interview," Aziraphale says quietly.

Crowley nods and finds it in the archive app. He skips the introduction, knowing exactly what part Aziraphale wants to hear.

He reads:

> The Escalator: "Can you tell us about your gardener and nanny?"
> 
> WD: "Why? Did they do something? I can bail them out, just tell me which jail…"
> 
> The Escalator: "They are accused of a crime but currently out of reach of the jurisdiction. And many actually consider their punishment served already. We would like to bring the readers a more accurate picture of them."
> 
> WD: "Can what I say be used against them?"
> 
> The Escalator: "Not at all. It might even help to clear their name."
> 
> WD: "If you are lying to me, I will find you and crush you under my heel."
> 
> The Escalator: "The final talk will be sent to you for authorization.”
> 
> WD: "Fine. So what do you want to know?"
> 
> The Escalator: "How would you describe their relationship? Were they a couple?"
> 
> WD: "That's rather hard to answer, actually. I don't think they were married or even… you know. [Note: see issue 15 for the definition of marriage, romantic and sexual relationship.] Not while being employed by my parents, at least. But in everything else, they acted like they’d been married for ages. My actual parents never had a marriage like that. Well, they divorced, after all. Without Nanny Ashthoreth and Brother Francis, I wouldn't know what a truly stable relationship should look like."
> 
> The Escalator: "What influence did they have on your childhood?"
> 
> WD: "Heh. They practically raised me, so I should say big one, but… not really a direct one, when I think about it. They were always there for me when I needed them, but always let me make my own choices. Just opposite to my real parents. They could get into fights with my parents over supporting my choices. Even the stupid ones. I don't know by what miracle they didn't get fired. But without them, I don't think I would have the courage to go against my father and pursue a career in comics. Or for coming out, obviously." [Note: see issue 23 on human gender identity and sexual orientation and cultural blog of issues 6 and 14 for examples of comics.]
> 
> The Escalator: "How would you describe them as people?" [note: the term people is used in place of entities as is recommended in conversation with humans]
> 
> WD: "A goth Mary Poppins who took shit from nobody and a hippie living history reenactor who loved God’s every creature. On the outside, at least. I think they were hiding behind those roles a bit. Nanny could be rather terrifying, and I was fascinated by that. But she could also be kind and gentle. You always felt safe with her, in that way when you know bad things are going to happen to people who dare to hurt you. And Brother Francis, he always radiated something that felt like being home. With him, you felt like nothing bad could happen, because it simply wouldn’t dare to in his presence. But when they were together… that felt safest. Uh, sorry I got a bit emotional. I miss them, I guess. Haven’t seen them for over ten years.”

Crowley’s voice trails off. 

“There are people who are willing to be strong for us. If we allow them,” Aziraphale whispers. 

"Maybe. But how do you do that? How do you trust someone else? Someone who's not us? I fear I have forgotten, if I ever knew."

Aziraphale sighs. "I know."

"And Warlock’s not here, anyway. There are those two. I don’t know what to think of them.”

“I would have trusted Zadkiel during the War, but that was long ago, for both of us. And all that time he’s been up there with the Archangels telling him what to think. But from what they wrote about us, I might dare to hope, actually. Not trust, just hope. If it's a trap, it’s a very elaborate one.”

Crowley sighs. “If it’s a trap, I want to get it over with already.”

“I do have an idea how we could be more certain, dear. Will you return with me to talk to them?” he offers his hand.

Crowley takes it and lets Aziraphale pull him to his feet. 

Masks go up.

* * *

Musdur and Zadkiel are just quarreling whether “ngk” is a word (Musdur claims it is one in demonic language), when Aziraphale’s voice sounds from the battlements. 

"A moment of your time, gentlemen? Can I ask one question?” 

Zadkiel stands up, almost overthrowing the board. “Yes, of course, Commander!”

“What about the elections?” Aziraphale asks. ”Who won?"

There is a moment of silence and exchanged looks at the foot of the wall.

"Well… you see…" Zadkiel starts. "It was pretty close. We did have the moral superiority. And the fact that we have a nice representation in the parliament speaks for itself, really. But the political mood... "

Musdur cuts the speech short. "Gabriel leads the government."

Aziraphale smiles, his shoulders sagging with relief. "It's the truth. They may be speaking the truth, Crowley." 

"Wait, what?" Crowley blinks. 

"If they said they won, I wouldn't believe them. They wouldn't say that Gabriel won if they wanted to lure us into a trap. And he’s too good a manipulator to not win against inexperienced politicians. We saw that many times in history, didn’t we?"

Crowley watches Aziraphale for a moment longer and then nods slowly. "Do you want to invite them in, angel? Assume they are telling the truth and discuss their offer?" 

Aziraphale doesn't answer right away. There is the bottle with holy water still sitting on the wall. He bends down to take it and pushes the cork firmly into its neck. "It's strange, isn't it? Being ready to die in one moment and learning that you can return home in the next. Although… I'm not sure about the home part. I'm not sure where that is anymore."

Crowley sighs. "Yeah… I know. Maybe we should talk to them. See what the options are and then take some time to decide. If you are sure it's not a trap."

Aziraphale looks down critically. "One more thing. Do you think someone would want to lure us into a trap while dressed like that?"

"Eh. Fair point," Crowley nods, a little smile finding its way to his lips. “Let’s play hosts, then.”

He conjures a rope ladder and lets it down from the wall. "Come up then," he calls. "I'm getting tired of the shouting!"

Down there, Zadkiel and Musdur hesitate for a moment. "No conditions?" Zadkiel asks.

Crowley shrugs. "Can't think of any." He pauses. "Well, maybe one. If you came to capture us, do us all a favour and be quick about it."

"We didn't!" Zadkiel calls hastily. "I'm giving you my word!"

"Yeah, I'm giving you his word, too," Musdur adds.

Crowley raises his eyebrows. "That's… a surprisingly efficient way for a demon to vouch for something. Aziraphale, why am I not going around giving your word?"

Aziraphale smirks. “I’m not sure anyone would want it.” He summons a few leaves from a tea shrub that grows in Eden’s Soho. He carefully uncorks the bottle of holy water, throws in the leaves and heats it with a quick miracle. 

Crowley relaxes a little. There is no such thing as holy tea. Once it can't be called water, it stops being holy. 

Still Aziraphale doesn't like to risk it and prepares another tea for the demons, pouring it into cups just as Zadkiel reaches the top of the wall. 

"Uhm… do you mind making a platform or something? Or should we stay on the ladder?" Zadkiel asks.

"Oh no, come in," Aziraphale gestures. “We’re a bit tired of hiding, I guess. Sugar?”

“No, thank you,” Zadkiel says and climbs to the top of the wall. He sighs with relief as he feels the no-miracle field releasing him. 

Crowley subconsciously positions himself between the newcomers and Aziraphale.

“Three,” Musdur follows after Zadkiel and puts a bottle of wine next to the cups. “If it’s regular water.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale assures him, a bit surprised they felt the holy water from such a distance - until he realizes the demon is referring to the Lethe.

Zadkiel curiously steps closer to the inner side of the wall. “So this is Eden. Wow.”

Musdur glances in the direction the angel is looking and shrugs a little. “Nature…” they say in the tone of someone who’s used to meeting that kind of thing only as a decoration on their plate. 

Aziraphale stretches his hand in greeting. “I’m glad to see you again, Zadkiel.”

The angel takes it, looking a little flustered. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Hi,” Crowley says.

Musdur nods. 

“So, Zadkiel, dear boy, would you tell us what happened in Heaven and Hell since your last visit, please?” Aziraphale asks, pouring the angel tea from the bottle. “I fear I’m getting a bit lost in it.”

“No, tell us something else first.” Musdur says with a challenging expression before Zadkiel can reply. “You only talked to us before because you knew we were out of water and would refill it from Lethe, didn’t you?” 

“Yes,” Crowley nods. 

Aziraphale sighs. “Yes,” he says as well, feeling the need to confess. “I’m sorry. We didn’t see how we could be safe here with anyone knowing.”

“I get that, really,” Zadkiel says. “Wouldn’t hold it against you. We can be a little nosey, right, Musdur?”

Musdur shrugs. “We’re journalists.”

“We didn’t drink from it, so no harm done,” Zadkiel adds. “Wouldn’t be that much harm in my case, actually. Everything I remember and is worth mentioning is printed in the Escalator. I’d catch up in no time.”

“‘Cause you’re a fledgeling with no real experience,” Musdur smirks.

Aziraphale tilts his head. “But how did you know? Only I was around when Lethe was made, and I haven’t told anyone, not even in reports. She told me not to.”

“I suspected you wouldn’t let us go with the interview if there wasn’t some catch,” Zadkiel says. “You’d talked too openly. Almost as if you didn’t expect us to get a chance to publish it.”

“Oooh, clever,” Crowley tips a nonexistent hat. 

“Thank you,” Zadkiel blushes a little. “When we got as far as the river and nothing happened, I started to suspect the water. So we took it, but didn’t drink it. Summoned ourselves a cold beer when we got out of the no-miracle zone, instead.”

“But how did you find out what the water does?” Aziraphale asks.

“Your request,” Zadkiel answers readily. “No photos, no recording, that made sense. It would have given us proof. But you also asked for no writing. We had to remember what you said if we wanted the interview. So I thought, what if there’s something you know about that would make us forget?” 

Musdur grins. “Also, we tried it on Hastur.”

That elicits a short surprised laugh from Crowley.

“And how did you get Satan Himself to drink it?” Aziraphale asks, pretending he's able to believe it just for a while, just to see how it feels.

Musdur and Zadkiel exchange a look. 

“Coffee break,” they say at the same time.

Crowley winces, then mouths the words quietly. Then chuckles to himself, pretending he's able to believe it, too. “Serves Him right.”

Musdur nods. “He made a habit of it. Work benefits, He claimed. So we slipped the water into His coffee maker.”

“And that’s it?” Crowley looks at them in disbelief.

“Well, it wasn’t that easy, but basically, yes,” Zadkiel says. 

Aziraphale watches the two journalists expectantly, but it seems they are not going to elaborate. He suddenly remembers and summons four chairs. “I’m sorry, please, sit down. Forget my head next time. So… are you absolutely certain?” he asks when they do sit. “He doesn’t remember anything?”

“Beelzebub’s keeping it secret, of course,” Musdur says. “For once our journal respects that, so I’d like to ask you to not talk about it to anyone. We don’t write about the private matters of Satan and God, it’s our policy. But yes, Satan is out of it. Zadkiel’s word.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley and for the first time, dares to believe. But he remains cautious. “So what about the others?” he asks. “Beelzebub, Gabriel, all the rest of Heaven and Hell? Don’t they want to capture us again?”

“Alright, so, Beelzebub,” Zadkiel starts counting on his fingers.

“Beelzebub is glad Satan is not commanding them anymore,” Musdur supplies. “They’re too busy running Hell to pay attention to you. And since there are demons who sympathize with you, they would only cause strife instead of boosting morale if they tried to go against you.”

“Gabriel,” Zadkiel extends a second finger. “Gabriel is too busy trying to keep his political power. He got to see that he can lose it very easily. And he will, we will make sure of that in the next election.”

“Uhm, sure, fledgeling,” Musdur says in a tone that sounds awfully similar to Crowley’s _of course, angel._

Third finger. “Heaven’s also full of angels who sympathize with you. Not everyone, naturally, but again, going against you would ruffle some feathers. They will leave you alone. Demons as well,” fourth finger. “Musdur already spoke about the demons. Hastur could have been trouble, but he’s out of the way.”

Fifth finger. “I guess that only leaves humans. But why humans would want to harm you is beyond me, so I dare say you should be perfectly safe.”

Crowley watches them for a long time. Then he glances at Aziraphale who’s looking somewhere beyond the horizon with an expression of shy hope. 

“I think I believe you,” Crowley says and Aziraphale nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you click the [[link]](https://flamingsword-omg.weebly.com/)? :) My friend [VisAnastasis](https://visanastasis.tumblr.com/) designed it.


	33. The apple of my eye

They asked for a few days. Musdur and Zadkiel put up a tent outside, giving them the privacy they did not ask for aloud (because when you spend centuries blending in with the Brits and then have to act as a host, some things just stick). The tent is well supplied by the drinks and meals that Eden can offer, including a vintage of rather passable Cabernet Sauvignon.

It feels strange, visiting the familiar places in Eden and knowing that the whole world is waiting outside of these walls and it is safe for you. It is strange, when you were ready to spend eternity in one place and then you get to leave it. A part of you doesn’t want to. It is scary. 

They are sitting in the Bentley. 

"You will get to drive the real one soon."

Crowley touches the wood and gold. He could have remade it with steel after they got all of the recording gadgets containing different materials, but didn't. 

"This one is real, too."

"I know."

They sit for a while longer. 

"Where to, angel?" Crowley asks.

"We could take a walk at St. James's."

Crowley nods and drives off, but his heart is not in it. He even imagines keeping the speed limit for a few seconds.

He opens the door for Aziraphale. They walk together down the stone path. 

"Do you think it felt like this, to Adam and Eve?" Aziraphale asks suddenly.

Crowley shakes his head. "It was more of going into the unknown and having to take care of themselves and a kid on the way. They had no idea how big that unknown is."

"Not really."

"They did?"

"No. It's not that big, I mean. A matter of perception. Human senses can only encompass a bit of it at a time. And then you can move and encompass another bit, still remembering the previous one. Your reality is a bubble of memory and perception. You can't take in the whole world at once. You can't know all the people. You can live in a huge city and be familiar with exactly as many people and places as in a small town. It's not that different from here. You don't get to deal with all the world at once."

"That sounds manageable."

"Yes. I rather meant the feeling of leaving something behind. Regret, maybe?"

Crowley shakes his head. "They weren't meant to stay here forever. It was just a matter of time."

"You think?"

"Come on, angel. You don't? A forbidden tree right in the middle of the garden? That was never supposed to last. Imagine the two of them, immortal, no kids, lollygagging here for all eternity. No challenges to overcome, no greatness to achieve. No actual humanity to speak of."

Aziraphale considers it for a moment. "So you are saying you actually did the right thing?"

"Heh. Maybe. Who knows."

"We could."

Crowley follows Aziraphale's look. They are in St. James's Park. Or, by other words, in the heart of Eden where a dead tree stands next to a living one. 

"Don't tell me you've never wondered…" 

Crowley chuckles. "Angel, are you tempting me?"

"As a matter of fact… yes, I am."

Crowley's expression gets serious. "You could Fall, angel."

"For tempting you? If that was the case, I would have Fallen long ago."

"For eating it, I mean. Don't tell me you're not going to take a bite if I do."

Aziraphale smiles. "No, I’m quite certain I wouldn't Fall. You know what's the worst that can happen? She could cast us out. I didn't want to try before, but now? What can we lose?"

He stops under the tree and picks an apple, blood-red and spotless. He extends his hand, offering it to Crowley.

"Do we have free will like humans do? And if not, then whose will are we fulfilling? You were troubled about this, weren't you? We could know."

Crowley watches the apple and then the angel, as if savouring the sight. "Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Easten Gate, the Tempter of Tempters," he whispers. "It suits you."

Aziraphale blushes. 

Crowley reaches for the apple. He doesn't take it from Aziraphale's hand but closes his hands around the angel's. He brings it to his lips. He kisses the hand and takes a bite from the apple.

Aziraphale takes a bite right after him, not waiting for the consequences - or wanting to experience them together.

A bit awkward moment of chewing and swallowing while watching each other.

"Hm. Quite juicy and sweet with a little hint of spicy tartness," Aziraphale evaluates.

Crowley snorts. "Admit it angel, you wanted to do this for the culinary experience."

"Absolutely," Aziraphale smiles. "I expected that would be the only experience to get from it."

Crowley pauses in a moment of introspection. "No change… How did you know?"

"For a start, we are wearing clothes."

"Huh."

"And not just for the fashion. We get embarrassed without them… in front of others, I mean," Aziraphale adds quickly before Crowley can object.

Crowey, who was going to do just that, closes his mouth.

"If I remember correctly, that was the effect of the apple on Adam and Eve.”

“Yes, a rather interesting side-effect, if you ask me.”

“Well, it led to humans inventing all those lovely clothes.”

Crowley smiles a little, thinking that he can guess exactly what clothes Aziraphale is thinking about. The keyword is ruffles.

“Remember our first talk?" Aziraphale asks, sitting down under the tree. It doesn't seem like the Almighty wants to show up and kick them out just yet. "We talked about good and evil."

Crowley joins him, leaning on the bark and Aziraphale's shoulder. "I told you you must have done the right thing because you are an angel."

"Yes. And do you still believe it?"

"Heh. Absolutely not. You did the right thing because you are you."

"I think the rightness could be debated, considering what the sword became. But basically, I agree. It was a choice. My choice. Not inherently right or wrong, just a choice with consequences. Just like yours."

“We did have free will then? Since the beginning?"

"We just didn't know the true difference between good and evil."

"That's what the apple is supposed to teach you,” Crowley says. “Back then, we still thought angels were Good and demons Evil. But those are just names of the sides. The real good and evil is a choice you make, no matter your side.”

“See? You didn't need the apple to know it.”

“But how did we learn it?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Humans, of course. Being around them. Pretending to be them. Do you remember Adam’s hell-hound?”

“You mean Dog?”

“Yes. Form influences nature. And we have been in human shape for a long, long time. It must have rubbed off. We make our own choices, unless someone limits them. I know why you’ve worried about it. Satan must have told you so many awful things, my dear. But you are not anyone’s tool. You’re an individual. Always have been. I just wanted to show you.”

Crowley sits quietly for a while, his head a pleasant weight on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Then he smirks to himself and turns to look at Aziraphale’s face, tickling him on the cheek with his hair as he moves. “You weren't completely sure, though. Admit it. You wouldn’t have waited until now, if you were.”

“Well, yes. I didn’t want to risk the slight possibility of getting us kicked out, obviously. But apparently we’re fine. Fancy an apple fritter?"

* * *

The private conference room is on the ground floor of the building, at the end of a hall you can only enter if you have a very specific security card, fitting into the slot next to a reinforced steel door behind the escalators. 

Beelzebub waves their hand nonchalantly and the door opens, revealing a well-lit hallway with fake plants placed in pots at regular intervals. At the end of the hallway, there is a simple plywood door leading into the conference room.

It's all polished chrome and glass and fake leather. A table in the middle, two leather chairs at its opposite ends, a carafe with water, two glasses and a bowl of fruit in the middle. The fruit's more of a decoration than an actual snack because who the hell would peel an orange in the middle of a business meeting, right?

Beelzebub strolls in and perches on the backrest of the leather chair, their feet trailing dirt on the seat. 

Gabriel stands up from the other chair, a broad smile showing a shade of white that's only seen in human teeth after spending a considerable amount of money on it. "Prince Beelzebub! I'm glad you accepted my invitation."

"Spit it out, Gabe. Some of uszzz have a Hell to run," Beelzebub snarls.

"Of course, of course. Leadership responsibilities. Heh, tell me about it…"

Beelzebub reaches into the fruit bowl and starts peeling an orange.

"So. Yes, I don't want to take much of your time. Just wanted to discuss a common strategy. For, you know. If some journalists come asking about the whole punishing the traitors business."

Beelzebub discards an orange peel on the table and raises their eyebrow. “What about it?” 

“See, we cooperated on capturing them, obviously. Obviously your Boss has had His fun with them and obviously the version shown in Heaven was different from the truth.”

“Obviouszzzly.” Beelzebub bites into the orange as if it were an apple, without separating the slices. The sticky juice trickles down their chin and flies sit down to drink it.

“Yes, well,” Gabriel puts on a pleasant smile. “The censorship happened on your side, since you didn’t want Heaven to know about Satan’s special interest in the traitors. I already got the censored version.”

Beelzebub leans forth, orange juice dribbling on the glass table. A few flies land on the drops. “Juszzzt to make it clear,” they drawl, “an Archangel iszzz tempting me to lie?”

Gabriel’s expression is shocked. “No! Not at all! You must have misheard. I’m merely offering a favour.”

“A favour. You. To me.”

“Of course. Do you think some other leadership would be that accommodating to you? It is in your best interest to assure that I keep my position…”

Beelzebub smirks. “I don’t give a fuck about your pozzzition. Where were you when Satan chaszzzed me over the galaxies to find the traitorzzzz?”

“I was busy! The political situation…”

“I don’t give a fuck about your political situation.”

“You say that until your demons start getting ideas about democracy. Then you will come to me pleading to give you some pointers about how to win the elections!”

“Not gonna happen,” Beelzebub smirks. “Someone elzzze wanna try running Hell? They’re my guest. I’ll gladly szzzit back and watch. But nobody would, becauzzzzze it's a hard and thankless job and I’m most competent at it and they know it.”

“I can have your whole plumbing system renovated!”

“You can,” Beelzebub nods. They pop the last bit of orange into their mouth and wipe their sticky hands into Gabriel’s suit. “Very selfless from you. And now excusze me, I’ve got more important thingszzz to deal with.”

* * *

Aziraphale did start packing, but stopped soon. Taking anything away from Eden felt wrong. Crowley felt it too and did not even start. In the end, they only took their clothes. That apparently didn’t count, since Adam and Eve were allowed to take what passed for clothes back then, too. 

But the gadgets from Musdur and Zadkiel were not originally from Eden, and once Crowley realized that loophole, he spent a few hours photographing all of Aziraphale’s original additions to his library, despite the angel’s protests that it wasn’t worth it. In turn, Aziraphale took photos of all Crowley’s paintings, taking great care to capture them in the best light while the demon was rolling his eyes behind his back. 

They left Eden in the morning, with the sun greeting the eastern wall where Aziraphale once made a gate. Now he didn’t bother. They used the rope ladder and once they were down, Crowley set it on fire. It burnt for a bit and then the wind put it out, so they left it like that. 

Crowley took the driver's seat after opening the door for Aziraphale. They sat in an embarrassed silence for a moment. Then they exchanged places because the jeep's driving wheel was on the left side. Zadkiel and Musdur exchanged a look, but didn't say anything as they took the back seats. 

When the low sun made Crowley squint, Zadkiel offered his sunglasses without a word. Crowley took them.

* * *

Now it's evening and they are in London. They are sitting in the Bentley - the original Bentley - in front of the bookshop. Beethoven’s Don't Try So Hard is playing on the radio.

"Should we go in?" Crowley asks.

Aziraphale nods. "Yes. Yes, we should. It was a long day, wasn't it?"

But neither of them moves.

* * *

"Here's a phone with a few contacts," Zadkiel said when he and Musdur were leaving. "Don't hesitate to call if you need anything."

"Yeah, sure," Crowley muttered and stuck it into his pocket. 

"Are you sure you don't want us to stay longer, until you settle in a bit?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Kid, we’ve known every street in London since there were just a few muddy huts. We don't need someone who's been on Earth less time than smartphones to show us around."

"Right," Zadkiel nodded. "I just thought… nevermind."

* * *

The sign on the door says "closed". It looks as if it was just yesterday that he turned it over from the rarely used "open" side. Aziraphale reaches for the doorknob.

The door is not locked. It opens easily when he pulls it. 

Saying _ after you _ feels wrong. He enters first.

The noise from the street subsides as soon as they get inside, as if the windows had some insulation. They don't. It is an empty silence.

The door should have been locked. There are books inside, valuable first editions piled on bookshelves towering along the walls like a dark amphitheatre full of staring, judging spectators.

But the door was not locked.

* * *

"You will find your things pretty much how you left them," Musdur said as they were sitting under the sunshade of a small restaurant near the garages of the jeep desert safari that did not mind one of their jeeps returning several days late. 

“Yes. There has been a field of disinterest put over them. When you get back, nobody will remember that the bookshop hasn’t been open for years,” Zadkiel said and then turned to the waiter to order them cold lemonade. 

“Oh, and we’ve also tidied up a bit,” he added as an afterthought when the drinks arrived. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale shook his head, but his attention was on the waiter. There were no other guests in the restaurant at this time of the day. The waiter was human. Delightfully, overwhelmingly human. Aziraphale’s eyes shone with shy joy.

* * *

Crowley switches on the lights. 

There are no plants. They all must have died long ago. Tidied up. 

There is no fruit in the bowl on the table. Tidied up. 

The cups are clean and stashed away in the cupboard. Tidied up. 

Someone threw away the dead plants and mouldy fruit, someone washed the cups. The door has not been locked, just a field of disinterest put over it. 

There are still faint remnants of it in the air. It wasn't Musdur and Zadkiel who put it there. It smells like ozone mixed with sulphur. 

Aziraphale tenses. His fists clench and he looks around as if expecting an attack. 

Crowley is tense, too. He moves further along the dark bookshelf with plant encyclopedias and spy novellas. On the kitchen counter, there is a coffee maker.

Crowley gags.

* * *

Behind the Bentley's windows, London is flowing like a river, busy and overwhelmingly human. The little island inside is threatened with being swept away by the flood.

The radio is silent. The only sound is that of a duet of fast and shallow breaths. 

A quiet sob. Then silence and the steady stream of London eroding the shores. 

“How do you pick up the threads of an old life?” Aziraphale whispers shakily, in his book-quoting voice. “How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand... there is no going back?"

“Shit, why’s there always someone who said it so much better than I would?” Crowley mutters.

“Tolkien. On the third shelf on the left, in the upper row. First edition, signed _ to my friend A. Z. Fell, a fellow hobbit_. I want it back, but I don’t want to go there for it. I don’t want to stay where they just… walked in and snatched us up. I don’t think I can ever feel safe there.”

“Now it’s you who said it better than I would.”

The radio starts playing All Dead, All Dead. 

“Shut up, I didn’t mean you,” Crowley snarls and the radio goes silent again. 

They stay in the car while the night passes into dawn. 

Crowley sighs. “We should find some other place. Somewhere calmer, in the country."

Aziraphale watches out of the car window, at the bookshop door. He nods regretfully. 

"We’re gonna ask for help, aren’t we?” Crowey mutters.

“It does seem that we need it, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly. "I don't know where to go, how to begin…"

Crowley takes out the phone from his pocket. He watches it for a moment, then puts it down. “I still can’t believe it,” he says. “I can’t believe that someone else could be on our side.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighs. “It’s hard to believe.”

“It would be nice, though.”

“It would.”

Crowley picks the phone again. He circles through the contacts and pauses at the name of Warlock Dowling. 

"We should call him sometime later," Aziraphale comments. "Invite him for a few days."

"When we have a place to invite him to." Crowley scrolls just a bit further until he sees Zadkiel’s number. 

"Well, the two of them seemed ready to help. And wouldn't need much explaining." He doesn't touch the call symbol, though, fighting with his pride.

"Let me, dear," Aziraphale says.

Crowley nods thankfully and gives him the phone.

Aziraphale presses his hand and calls the number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 30th anniversary to Good Omens! And in a week from now, this story will be complete too...


	34. Certainty and control

There is a cottage at the outskirts of a little village in the South Downs. It has a big garden surrounded by a low stone fence. There are a few old fruit trees and some newly planted ones, a little herb and vegetable garden and a pond with water lilies surrounded by mossy stones. The roses and wisterias that surround the path to the house are the source of envy for miles around. 

The glasshouse next to the brick and stone cottage is more of a source of curiosity. Not that it couldn't potentially cause envy, but the sight seems to be meant for private enjoyment only. All that can be seen from outside is the lush green and the occasional shape of a leaf pressed against the glass.

The gable roof of the cottage is clay tiles, with two dormer windows sticking out from the attic. The windows have white mullions and flowery curtains behind them. And the little panel near the door says “Eden Cottage”. 

The sky above the cottage is grey, promising rain soon. In other words, an average afternoon in the English countryside. 

A vintage Bentley approaches down the narrow road and the wrought iron gate opens automatically even though it doesn't look like an automatic one. The golden gravel pathway leads to the garage that's an extension of the house on the side opposite the greenhouse. The Bentley, another rather effective source of envy in the vicinity, disappears inside. The rain starts to fall.

* * *

"Oh, hello darling. Back already?" Aziraphale looks up from a book as Crowley enters the living room. It's a cozy room with a hearth, a green sofa, an antique coffee table and a big TV. There are only three large bookshelves here, but that's because the main library is upstairs. 

“Yep.” Crowley puts down his sunglasses and plops on the sofa, draping one leg over the backrest and leaving the other one on the seat, slithering slowly towards Aziraphale’s lap. 

“Had fun at the golf club?”

“Oh, you know. The sand pit, lost balls, near misses… Such a relaxing sport, really. When you are causing those, I mean. Not playing it. Oh, and I even did one blessing.”

“Really? Tell me about it.” Aziraphale shifts to let Crowley rest his ankle across his thighs. 

“I tempted this one guy to yell at a worker cutting a shrub for being in the way. That was after he lost two balls and broke his club. But he decided to be nice instead, so I blessed him.”

“Ah! It’s lovely when they do that.”

“I stopped to check Shepherd & Dog’s new menu on the way back.” Crowley closes his eyes, like reciting something from memory. “Pan-fried scallops, celeriac and truffle purée, pickled fennel and monk’s beard as an entrée. Or goat’s cheese cheesecake, rhubarb purée, sprouted quinoa and burnt apple. Choices, choices… Wanna go there for dinner?”

“Oh dear, that sounds delicious. We definitely should go there tomorrow. But today we’re having guests. I’ve already made us sandwiches and blueberry cake.”

“Humans or not? If it’s Caliel wanting to discuss politics again, I’m not here. I’m quarreling with Betty Brooks down the road about pruning roses or something.”

“No, it’s Zadkiel and Musdur.”

“Really?" Crowley inches closer, putting both legs into Aziraphales's lap now. "Haven’t heard from them for two years. What are they doing now?”

“I don't know, actually. There hasn't been an article in the Escalator from either of them for a while. I was actually a bit afraid that they might have been punished for fraternizing.”

Crowley makes some complicated rotating maneuver and is now lying with his head in Aziraphale’s lap and his legs sprawled over the backrest of the sofa. “You don’t get punished for fraternizing these days. Kids have it easy now, not like back in the old days.”

Aziraphale relaxes and smiles a bit. “Do you think they’ll figure it out sooner?”

Crowley purses his lips thoughtfully. “Under 500 years. I would bet on that.”

“Fine. I bet you a bottle of Casillero del Diablo.”

* * *

“Tea? Blueberry cake?” Aziraphale asks. “So what are you doing nowadays?” 

Musdur and Zadkiel look at each other. 

“I’m not sure if we can tell you. But we would appreciate some advice,” Zadkiel says, taking a cup of tea. “That’s why we came.”

“Well of course, my dear,” Aziraphale replies right away. “Whatever do you need advice with?”

Musdur and Zadkiel look at each other again.

“Raising kids in a neutral way.”

Now Aziraphale and Crowley look at each other. “Kids?” Crowley raises his eyebrows. “You mean actual kids, right? Not baby goats?”

Musdur and Zadkiel look at each other once more.

Musdur takes the cake. “Well, not actually kids. Just one. And more like… adult, but with no me-... No experience with the human world, I mean.”

This time Aziraphale and Crowley look at each other. The look they exchange is a long one.

Aziraphale goes on to pour tea for himself. His hands are shaking - he spills a bit on his fingers. He takes a sharp breath between his teeth and blows on the fingers. 

His breath hitches. "I… Excuse me for a moment," he says hastily. "I'll be right back."

Crowley is already up and follows him without giving any excuse.

Musdur and Zadkiel exchange a look. 

* * *

When Aziraphale and Crowley finally come back, Musdur is standing next to a bookshelf, surveying the titles on it and Zadkiel is browsing through the newest Escalator that was left on the table.

"Those cultural columns you wrote are really good," Zadkiel says as if nothing happened. "Wouldn't you like to make them more regular?"

Aziraphale is already composed and he smirks a bit as he looks at Zadkiel. "No, thank you. Tell the chief editor that I don't like being given assignments. If I feel like writing a column or a few, I will. If not… she could always read a book or see a play herself."

He sits down on the sofa and Crowley joins him, staying so close that their shoulders are touching.

"You know how Pepper gets when there's not enough strong female characters in a book or play," Zadkiel says, putting the newspaper aside. 

"I can write a car review," Crowley suggests.

"All your car reviews after the Bentley one are: _you don't get the kind of performance from it that you get from a 1933 Bentley_, dear."

"Well, it's true."

There is a moment of silence.

"More tea? A sandwich?" Aziraphale asks to fill it. 

Zadkiel and Musdur shake their heads.

"I'll have some tea," Crowley says instead and Aziraphale pours it, thankful to have something to do.

"So… the invulnerability spell wearing off?" Musdur asks, sitting down again.

"Yeah," Crowley nods nonchalantly. "I'm still forgetting to wear gloves when pruning roses all the time."

Another moment of silence. Aziraphale fidgets with his hands. Then he raises his gaze and looks straight at Zadkiel.

"You are raising Satan, aren’t you?” he asks quietly. 

Musdur and Zadkiel exchange another look. 

"We might be… tutoring an individual," Zadkiel says slowly. "Going by the name Luke Grey. As an assignment from a certain… highly positioned person."

Musdur rolls their eyes. “You're still not very good at this subtlety thing, fledgling."

Crowley raises his eyebrows. "Beelzebub asked you two to raise Sa-... Luke Grey to be human?"

"Yeah," Musdur nods. "They are running Hell quite well now that nobody is commanding them, sure they want to keep it that way. Even the pipes stopped leaking, would you believe that?"

"No way…" Crowley mutters.

"It worked with the Antichrist, and Satan is no more inherently evil than he was. It's a secret, though. Understandably the Prince of Hell likes to keep the pretence of being backed up by a higher authority."

"Just like Heaven," Aziraphale shrugs.

"So I have to ask you to keep it to yourselves," Musdur adds.

"Of course, dear," Aziraphale says reassuringly. "We are good at keeping secrets."

"Yes. Took us six millenia to be perfectly honest with each other about one thing. What about you?"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale nudges him.

"What? I'm just asking."

Musdur and Zadkiel exchange a look. 

"I don't understand the question," Zadkiel says with some confusion.

"Never mind that, dear," Aziraphale says. "You wanted some advice, we will gladly give you that. But I have to ask." His eyes dart to the side, as if seeking reassurance from Crowley. "Is He… are you safe with Him?"

Zadkiel's look softens. "Oh, no worries. He's all right. Right now he's mostly into cartoons and playing with Lego."

"He's also wearing a lovely set of bracelets, you know," Musdur says matter-of-factly. "Very stylish. Actually..." he glances at Zadkiel, who nods, "...we've got the key here. Would you like to keep it?"

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. He watches them and Zadkiel for a while, taking in that question. Crowley is biting his lips.

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand. "Would you excuse us for a moment longer?"

"Of course," Zadkiel says. His look is compassionate as he watches them leave.

"Do you think we may have made a mistake in letting them know about it?" he whispers towards Musdur when they are alone in the living room.

"Dunno," Musdur mutters. "You are the expert on feelings here."

Zadkiel sighs, looking around as if the furniture and books on the shelves could give him an answer. "I still think they deserve to know," he says slowly. "It's better than uncertainty. I just wonder if we should have waited a bit longer. They seemed to be doing fine already, but it can be deceptive."

"They are seeing that angel who got a degree in human psychology, aren't they? What's her name?"

"Ambriel. Yes, she enrolled at a university after seeing those tapes and now has a nice little practice. I think they are seeing her every Thursday, but I couldn't ask her about it. Couldn't reveal our charge. Subtlety, eh?" 

"Doesn't matter," Musdur says. "We're offering certainty and control. I don't see a reason to wait."

"But it’s also a reminder."

Musdur shrugs. "I think I would still want it. Having control is always good."

Zadkiel smirks with one corner of his mouth. “Yes, I know how you are about control. But I’m not sure they have the same opinion.” He sighs and takes a sandwich to occupy his hands while waiting.

He has eaten the sandwich and two pieces of cake and finished his tea by the time Aziraphale and Crowley come back.

They do not apologize for the delay. 

They are holding hands, but there is no insecurity in the gesture. There is a quiet strength in it, radiating from their eyes and posture. 

"This key," Aziraphale asks, "is it going to be ours to keep and decide about? Will nobody ask for it by any authority?"

Zadkiel nods. "Yes. I give you my word."

"And Beelzebub gives you Gabriel's word,” Musdur adds. 

Crowley frowns with that. "Wait, Gabriel knows?"

"No, but Lord Beelzebub will make sure that he's no trouble," Musdur grins.

Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a look.

Crowley nods.

"We will take the key," Aziraphale says, his words calm and confident. 

Behind their gaze there is something that has been broken and mended. The cracks are still visible, but, like in a broken bone, filled with something stronger than the original . 

Zadkiel bows his head in respect as he is giving them the silver key. 

Aziraphale presses it in his palm. The key fits into it perfectly, fully hidden under his clenched fingers. He watches it, mesmerized. But then Crowley takes the clenched hand and brings it to his lips and Aziraphale smiles with the kiss.

When Crowley lets go of his hand, he opens his fist and slips the key into his pocket. He clears his throat. “Alright, so… you wanted advice, right? Well for that, actually, I think it would be best if you ask Mrs. and Mr. Young. Or Adam himself. I’m not quite sure how the Apocalypse would have gone if we had raised the correct Antichrist.”

“I agree,” Crowley nods. “Although I’ll give you one piece of advice.”

“Yes?” Zadkiel leans closer.

“Do not ever, under any circumstances, leave him alone with sharpies and a microwave.”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale mutters, nodding sagely like someone who knows exactly where the advice is coming from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casillero del Diablo is a Chilean wine with the name meaning "devil's cellar". It's one I actually tasted and quite liked. 
> 
> Shepherd & Dog is a real inn and that's their real menu (Valentine special) and one of the reasons why I'm convinced that the cottage in South Downs is in the village of Fulking. The others are:  
\- it's close to Devil's Dyke that Crowley read about in the Infernal Times while talking to Shadwell  
\- Aziraphale would love [this well](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/bf/Fulking_spring.JPG)  
\- they have a [Book Nook](https://fulking.net/book-nook-opening-hours-2/)taking place in an old chapel (probably not consecrated anymore) and [Seedling Sunday](https://fulking.net/seedling-sunday-7/) every week (with cakes!)  
\- it's so pretty I spent half an hour touring it in google maps street view  
There are many golf clubs around, so Crowley became a member in a few to mess with the players :)
> 
> And now there's only an epilogue (where we will find out who won the bet) left...


	35. Epilogue

We are in a bookshop. The sign on the door says "open". A few people are inside, browsing a wide selection of classical literature mixed with new titles. It is a rather stylish shop, with a unique atmosphere that feels cozy and warm. There are soft carpets and sofas where one can sit down and read a book without any staff getting annoyed about not purchasing it. 

Sensitive individuals might catch a hint of evil in the shop. And it's not just the Jeffrey Archer books. But only someone who's able to see auras would be able to tell that there's a demon in the adult section. 

It's a short person in a black and yellow leather jacket, with heavy steel-shod leather boots reaching just below their knees and a collection of piercings in their ears and face. They are holding a paper bag with the logo of an expensive fashion boutique. 

They wave at another person who just entered the shop. It's quite hard to believe that the gentleman in a beige coat and a bowtie would be here to meet them, but he waves back and heads towards the demon. Only someone who's able to see auras would be able to tell that he's an angel.

"Aziraphale! I'm glad that you found some time."

"Oh, it's no problem, dear, since we’re already in London.”

“Isn’t Crowley with you?”

“Yes, of course. He just wanted to stop in the garden centre and I have some business here, so we split for now. We're going to see a play in the East End and have dinner somewhere nice later in the evening. But what brings you here? I thought you and Zadkiel were staying in California with… you know.”

“We are, I just popped over here to get a few things,” Musdur raises his hand with the shopping bag as an explanation.

“I see. So how are you doing there? Having no trouble, I hope…”

“No, we are fine. Had a bit of trouble with fitting in at first, but we pretend that he’s a millionaire recovering from a head injury. He doesn’t get weird looks when he does something childish that way. And the villa by the sea is nice. Zadkiel even got a motorboat.”

“Ah. That’s… good to hear. I guess. Just tell him to sail… er… drive? Do you sail or drive in such a thing? Nevermind. Just tell him to do it safely, please.”

Musdur smirks slightly. “Sure.”

“Oh, but what may I help you with, dear? You said you needed my help when you asked me to meet.” 

“Yes, I need advice about a book.”

“A book? Of course, I’m happy to help with that."

“Thanks. So you’re actually selling books here now?”

“Oh no! Heavens, no. I’ve got my collection safe at home. I’m just renting the space to some nice people who are selling other books. Not mine. Well, more like lending it to them, not renting. I wasn’t using it anyway and they let me come in and read anytime, and get me what I need... hello Paul!” he waves to a tattooed young man behind the counter. 

The man waves back and Musdur gives a barely perceptible nod, turning back to Aziraphale. 

“So what book are you looking for?” the angel asks. 

“Got it somewhere here,” Musdur is searching their pockets for something. “I’ve heard this one is a good inspiration, but I would rather ask you. Don’t want to get it wrong. Ah, here.” They take out a crumpled piece of paper. “The name’s just a coincidence, by the way. Beelzebub came up with it, it’s not inspired by this. Well, I think so, at least.”

Aziraphale takes the paper and his face stays motionless as he reads it. “Ah. I see. That’s actually a rather bad one if you want to use it as an inspiration. And not the right kind of shop, either. But there’s one just around the corner and they have educational books and also other things. I’ll show you, give me just a moment, I wanted to get a book for Crowley.” 

Musdur nods and Aziraphale approaches Paul. “Do you have it, dear?”

“Of course, Mr. Fell. Le Petit Prince, first edition.”

“Oh, wonderful! I never learnt French that well, but Anthony speaks it fluently. He will enjoy reading it in the original.”

He chats with Paul for a while longer and then returns to Musdur. “All right, I’ve got my book. Now let’s get what you are looking for. Come.”

* * *

“So I assume it’s a present, since Zadkiel is not here?” Aziraphale asks carefully as they are leaving the other kind of shop with a rather big bag. 

“Yes,” Musdur nods.

“So he doesn’t know about it? I don’t want to be nosey, but you might want to ask him first.”

“No need. I know his size and he’s been eyeing that green dress ever since the first time we were in that shop and since it’s our anniversary… ah, you mean this?” he points at the other bag, not the one from the fashion boutique. “Of course he knows. We’ve wanted to try this the human way for a while, it sounds interesting and less messy.”

“Good, good.” Aziraphale murmurs. "Well, it depends on what you consider messy, but… yes." 

He stashes the crumpled paper with the inscription  _ Fifty Shades of Grey _ into his pocket. “Have a nice evening then. I need to stop in the wine shop for a bottle of Casillero del Diablo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe the story is over... Thank you for accompanying me on this journey to all who read it chapter by chapter as well as those who will yet read it as a whole! I know it was not an easy read, but I hope it was worth it to get to the end! Kudos and comments are always appreciated and you can find me on tumblr as mirach, if you would like to chat or ask something about this story (or anything else).
> 
> I must say I'm quite fond of Musdur and Zadkiel, but I'm not sure if I will get to writing anything more about them, so if somebody would like to borrow them and take them for a few adventures (of any rating ;)) as journalists or while raising Satan, you are very welcome! :) 
> 
> And I really wanted to have a little memory / souvenir so I made some flaming sword pins. You can see them on my tumblr, too (or ask about them if they get buried in my blog).


End file.
